UN  I  VERITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


; 


TK 

GO  13 


iX)N  BOOK  CO 

• 


MAD    SHEPHERDS 

AND  OTHER  HUMAN  STUDIES 


• 


"SNARLEY    BOB" 
From  a  Drawing  by  L.   Leslie  Brooke 


MAD  SHEPHERDS 

AND  OTHER  HUMAN  STUDIES 


BY 


L.  P.  JACKS 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BT 

L.  LESLIE  BROOKE 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1910 


THIS    BOOK 
IS    DEDICATED   TO 

SIR   ROBERT   BALL 

LL.D.,    F.R.S. 


CONTENTS 

MAD  SHEPHERDS 

PAGE 

1.  SHOEMAKER   HANKIN    ......  1 

2.  BNARLEY   BOB   ON  THE   STARS  ....          26 

3.  "SNARLETCHOLOGY,"   I.   THEORETICAL    ...         40 

4.  "SNARLEYCHOLOGY,"   II.    EXPERIMENTAL  .  .         58 

5.  A   MIRACLE,    I.      .  .  .  .  .  .  .83 

6.  A   MIRACLE,    II.    .  .  .  .  .  .  .       101 

7.  SHEPHERD   TOLLER   O*   CLUN   DOWNS        .  .  .124 

8.  SNARLEY   BOB'S   INVISIBLE   COMPANION  .  .  .154 

9.  THE  DEATH   OF  SNARLEY   BOB         ....       174 

OTHER  HUMAN  STUDIES 

1.  FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  .         .         .  .188 

2.  A  GRAVEDIGGER  SCENE        .         .         .         .  .212 

3.  HOW  I  TRIED  TO  ACT  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN  .     223 

4.  "MACBETH"  AND  "BANQUO"  ON  THE  BLASTED     . 

HEATH.  233 


THERE  is  nothing  that  so  embases  and  enthralls  the  Souls  of 
men,  as  the  dismall  and  dreadfull  thoughts  of  their  own 
Mortality,  which  will  not  suffer  them  to  look  beyond  this 
short  span  of  Time,  to  see  an  houres  length  before  them,  or 
to  look  higher  than  these  materiall  Heavens;  which  though 
they  could  be  stretch'd  forth  to  infinity,  yet  would  the  space 
be  too  narrow  for  an  enlightened  mind,  that  will  not  be  con- 
fined within  the  compass  of  corporeal  dimensions.  These 
black  Opinions  of  Death  and  the  Non-entity  of  Souls  (darker 
than  Hell  it  self)  shrink  up  the  free-born  Spirit  which  is 
within  us,  which  would  otherwise  be  dilating  and  spreading 
it  self  boundlessly  beyond  all  Finite  Being:  and  when  these 
sorry  pinching  mists  are  once  blown  away,  it  finds  this  narrow 
sphear  of  Being  to  give  way  before  it;  and  having  once  seen 
beyond  Time  and  Matter,  it  finds  then  no  more  ends  nor 
bounds  to  stop  its  swift  and  restless  motion.  It  may  then 
fly  upwards  from  one  heaven  to  another,  till  it  be  beyond 
all  orbe  of  Finite  Being,  swallowed  up  in  the  boundless 
Abyss  of  Divinity,  imepdva)  rf/s  ouoias,  beyond  all  that  which 
darker  thoughts  are  wont  to  represent  under  the  Idea  of  Es- 
sence. This  is  that  6eeov  aKdros  which  the  Areopagite  speaks 
of,  which  the  higher  our  Minds  scare  into,  the  more  incom- 
prehensible they  find  it.  Those  dismall  apprehensions 
which  pinion  the  Souls  of  men  to  mortality,  churlishly  check 
and  starve  that  noble  life  thereof,  which  would  alwaies  be 
rising  upwards,  and  spread  it  self  in  a  free  heaven:  and 
when  once  the  Soul  hath  shaken  off  these,  when  it  is  once  able 
to  look  through  a  grave,  and  see  beyond  death,  it  finds  a 
vast  Immensity  of  Being  opening  it  self  more  and  more 
before  it,  and  the  ineffable  light  and  beauty  thereof  shining 
more  and  more  into  it. 

Select  Discourses  of  John  Smith,  the 
Cambridge  Platonist,  1660. 


MAD  SHEPHERDS 

AND  OTHER  HUMAN  STUDIES 

SHOEMAKER  HANKIN 

AMONG  the  four  hundred  human  beings  who 
peopled  our  parish  there  were  two  notable 
men  and  one  highly  gifted  woman.  All  three 
are  dead,  and  lie  buried  in  the  churchyard  of 
the  village  where  they  lived.  Their  graves 
form  a  group — unsung  by  any  poet,  but 
worthy  to  be  counted  among  the  resting- 
places  of  the  mighty. 

The  woman  was  Mrs.  Abel,  the  Rector's 
wife.  None  of  us  knew  her  origin — I  doubt 
if  she  knew  it  herself:  beyond  her  husband 
and  children,  assignable  relatives  she  had 
none. 

"Sie  war  nicht  in  dem  Tal  geboren, 
Man  wiuste  nicht  woher  sie  kam." 

1 

1 


2  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

Her  husband  met  her  many  years  ago  at  a 
foreign  watering-place,  and  married  her  there 
after  a  week's  acquaintance — much  to  the 
scandal  of  his  family,  for  the  lady  was  an 
actress  not  unknown  to  fame.  Their  only 
consolation  was  that  she  had  a  considerable 
fortune — the  fruit  of  her  professional  work. 

In  all  relevant  particulars  this  strange  ven- 
ture had  proved  a  huge  success.  To  leave 
the  fever  of  the  stage  for  the  quiet  life  of 
the  village  had  been  to  Mrs.  Abel  like  the 
escape  of  a  soul  from  the  flames  of  purgatory. 
She  had  rightly  discerned  that  the  Rev. 
Edward  Abel  was  a  man  of  large  heart,  high 
character,  and  excellent  wit — partly  clergy- 
man,  but  mostly  man.  He,  on  his  part, 
valued  his  wife,  and  his  judgment  was  backed 
by  every  humble  soul  in  the  village.  But  the 
bigwigs  of  the  county,  and  every  clergyman's 
wife  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles,  were  of 
another  mind.  She  had  not  been  "proper" 
to  begin  with — at  least,  they  said  so;  and  as 
time  went  on  she  took  no  pains  to  be  more 
"proper"  than  she  was  at  first.  Her  impro- 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  3 

prieties,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  learn,  arose 
from  nothing  more  heinous  than  her  posses- 
sion of  an  intelligence  more  powerful  and  a 
courage  more  daring  than  that  to  which  any 
of  her  neighbours  could  lay  claim.  Her  out- 
spokenness was  a  stumbling-block  to  many; 
and  the  offence  of  speaking  her  mind  was 
aggravated  by  the  circumstance,  not  always 
present  at  such  times,  that  she  had  a  mind 
to  speak.  To  quote  the  language  in  which 
Farmer  Ferryman  once  explained  the  situa- 
ation  to  me:  "She'd  given  all  on  'em  a  taste 
o'  the  whip,  and  with  some  on  'em  she'd  pep- 
pered and  salted  the  sore  place  into  the  bar- 
gain." Moreover,  she  sided  with  many 
things  that  a  clergyman's  wife  ought  to  op- 
pose: took  all  sorts  of  undesirables  under 
her  protection,  helped  those  whom  every- 
body else  wanted  to  punish,  threw  good  dis- 
cretion to  the  winds,  and  sometimes  mixed 
in  undertakings  which  no  "lady"  ought  to 
touch.  To  all  this  she  added  the  imperti- 
nence of  regular  attendance  at  church,  where 
she  recited  the  Creeds  in  a  rich  voice  that 


4  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

almost  drowned  her  husband's,  turning  punc- 
tually to  the  East  and  bowing  at  the  Sacred 
Name.  That  she  was  a  hypocrite  trying 
to  save  her  face  was,  of  course,  obvious  to 
every  Scribe  and  Pharisee  in  the  county. 
But  the  poor  of  Deadborough  preferred  her 
hypocrisy  to  the  virtuous  simplicity  of  her 
critics. 

Mrs.  Abel  is  too  great  a  subject  for  such 
humble  portraiture  as  I  can  attempt,  and 
she  will  henceforth  appear  in  these  pages 
only  as  occasion  requires.  It  is  time  that 
we  turn  to  the  men. 

The  first  of  these  was  Robert  Dellanow, 
known  far  and  wide  as  "Snarley  Bob,"  head 
shepherd  to  Sam  Ferryman  of  the  Upper 
Farm.  I  say,  the  first;  for  it  was  he  who 
had  the  pre-eminence,  both  as  to  intelligence 
and  the  tragic  antagonisms  of  his  life.  The 
man  had  many  singularities,  singular  at  least 
in  shepherds.  Perhaps  the  chief  of  these 
was  the  violence  of  the  affinities  and  repul- 
sions that  broke  forth  from  him  towards  every 
personality  with  whom  he  came  into  any, 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  5 

even  the  slightest,  contact.  Snarley  invari- 
ably loved  or  hated  at  first  sight,  or  rather  at 
first  sound,  for  he  was  strangely  sensitive  to 
the  tones  of  a  human  voice.  If,  as  seldom 
happened,  your  voice  and  presence  chanced 
to  strike  the  responsive  chord,  Snarley  be- 
came your  devoted  slave  on  the  spot;  the 
heavy,  even  brutal,  expression  that  his  face 
often  wore  passed  off  like  a  cloud;  you  were 
in  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  and  it 
seemed  that  Elijah  or  one  of  the  prophets 
had  come  back  to  earth.  If,  as  was  more 
likely,  your  manner  repelled  him,  he  would 
show  signs  of  immediate  distress;  the  ani- 
mality  of  his  features  would  become  more 
sinister  and  forbidding;  and  if,  undaunted 
by  the  first  repulse,  you  continued  to  press 
your  attentions  upon  him,  he  would  presently 
break  out  into  an  ungovernable  paroxysm 
of  rage,  accompanied  by  startling  language 
and  even  by  threats  of  violence,  which  drove 
offenders  headlong  from  his  presence.  In 
these  outbursts  he  was  unrestrained  by  rank, 
age,  or  sex — indeed,  his  antipathies  to  cer- 


6  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

tain  women  were  the  most  violent  of  all. 
Curiously  enough,  it  was  the  presence  of 
humanity  of  the  uncongenial  type  which 
alone  had  power  to  effect  his  reversion  to  the 
status  of  the  brute.  His  normal  condition 
was  gentle  and  serene:  he  was  fond  of  chil- 
dren and  certain  animals,  and  he  bore  the 
agonies  of  his  old  rheumatic  limbs  without 
a  murmur  of  complaint. 

It  was  not  possible,  of  course,  that  such  a 
man,  however  gifted  with  intelligence,  should 
"succeed  in  life."  There  were  some  people 
who  held  that  he  was  mad,  and  proposed 
that  he  should  be  put  under  restraint;  and 
doubtless  they  would  have  gained  their  end 
had  not  Snarley  been  able  to  give  proofs 
of  his  sanity  in  certain  directions  such  as  few 
men  could  produce. 

Once  he  had  been  haled  before  the  magis- 
trate to  answer  a  serious  charge  of  using 
threats,  was  fined  and  compelled  to  give 
security  for  his  good  behaviour;  and  it  was 
on  this  occasion  that  he  narrowly  escaped 
detention  as  a  lunatic.  Indeed,  I  cannot 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  7 

prove  that  he  was  sane;  but  neither  could 
I  prove  it,  if  challenged,  in  regard  to  myself 
—a  difficulty  which  the  courteous  reader,  in 
his  own  case,  will  hardly  deny  that  he  has 
to  share  with  me.  Mad  or  sane,  it  is  certain 
that  Snarley,  under  a  kinder  Fate,  might 
have  been  something  more  splendid  than  he 
was.  Mystic,  star-gazer,  dabbler  in  black  or 
blackish  arts,  he  seemed  in  his  lowly  occu- 
pation of  shepherd  to  represent  some  strange 
miscarriage  of  Nature's  designs;  but  Mrs. 
Abel,  who  understood  the  secrets  of  many 
hearts,  always  maintained  that  Snarley,  the 
breeder  of  the  famous  Ferryman  rams,  had 
found  the  calling  to  which  he  had  been  fore- 
ordained from  the  foundation  of  the  world. 
Of  this  the  reader  must  judge  from  the  sequel; 
for  we  shall  hear  much  of  him  anon. 

The  second  man  was  Tom  Hankin,  shoe- 
maker. A  man  of  strong  contrasts  was  Tom; 
an  octogenarian  when  I  first  knew  him,  and 
an  atheist,  as  he  proudly  boasted,  "all  his 
life."  My  last  interview  with  him  took  place 
a  few  days  before  his  death,  when  he  knew 


8  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

that  he  was  hovering  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave;  and  it  was  then  that  Hankin  offered 
me  his  complete  argument  for  the  non-exis- 
tence of  Deity  and  the  mortality  of  the  soul. 
Never  did  dying  saint  dilate  on  the  raptures 
of  Paradise  with  greater  fervour  than  that 
displayed  by  the  old  man  as  he  developed 
his  theme.  I  will  not  say  that  Hankin  was 
happy;  but  he  was  fierce  and  unconquered, 
and  totally  unafraid.  I  think  also  that  he 
was  proud — proud,  that  is,  of  his  ability  to 
hurl  defiance  into  the  very  teeth  of  Death. 
He  said  that  he  had  always  hoped  he  would 
be  able  to  die  thus;  that  he  had  sometimes 
feared  lest  in  his  last  illness  there  should  be 
some  weakening  towards  the  end:  perhaps 
his  mind  would  become  overclouded,  and  he 
would  lose  grip  of  his  arguments;  perhaps 
he  would  think  that  death  was  something 
instead  of  being  nothing;  perhaps  he  would 
be  troubled  by  the  thought  of  impending 
annihilation.  But  no,  it  was  all  as  clear  as 
before,  clearer  if  anything.  All  that  troubled 
him  was  "that  folks  was  so  blind;  that  Snar- 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  9 

ley  Bob,  in  particular,  was  as  obstinate  as 
ever — a  man,  sir,  as  ought  to  ha'  known  better; 
never  would  listen  to  no  arguments;  always 
shut  him  up  when  he  tried  to  reason,  and  some- 
times swore  at  him ;  and  him  with  the  best  head 
in  the  whole  county,  but  crammed  full  of 
rubbish  that  was  no  use  to  himself  nor  no- 
body else,  and  that  nobody  could  make  head 
nor  tail  of — no,  not  even  Mrs.  Abel,  as  was 
always  backing  him  up;  and  to  think  of  him 
breedin'  sheep  all  his  life;  why,  that  man, 
sir,  if  only  he'd  learned  a  bit  o'  common- 
sense  reasonin',  might  ha'  done  wonders, 
instead  o'  wastin'  himself  wi'  a  lot  o'  tom- 
foolery about  stars  and  spirits,  and  what  all." 
Thus  he  continued  to  pour  forth  till  a  fit  of 
coughing  interrupted  the  torrent. 

Hankin  was  the  son  of  a  Chartist,  from 
whom  he  inherited  a  small  but  sufficient  col- 
lection of  books.  Tom  Paine  was  there, 
of  course,  bearing  on  every  page  of  him  the 
marks  of  two  generations  of  Hankin  thumbs. 
He  also  possessed  the  works  of  John  Stuart 
Mill,  not  excepting  the  Logic,  which  he  had 


10  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

mastered,  even  as  to  the  abstruser  portions, 
with  a  thoroughness  such  as  few  professors 
of  the  science  could  boast  at  the  present  day. 
Mill,  indeed,  was  his  prophet;  and  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  Greatest  Happiness  was  his  guid- 
ing star.  Hankin  was  well  abreast  of  cur- 
rent political  questions,  and  to  every  one  of 
them  he  applied  his  principle  and  managed 
by  means  of  it  to  take  a  definite  side.  As 
he  worked  at  his  last  he  would  concentrate 
his  mind  on  some  chosen  problem  of  social 
reform,  and  would  ponder,  with  singular  per- 
tinacity, the  ways  and  degrees  in  which  alter- 
native solutions  of  it  would  affect  the  happi- 
ness of  men.  He  would  sometimes  spend 
weeks  in  meditating  thus  on  a  single  problem, 
and,  when  a  solution  had  been  reached  ac- 
cording to  his  method,  he  made  it  a  regular 
practice  to  go  down  to  the  Nag's  Head  and 
announce  the  result,  with  all  the  prolixity  of 
its  antecedents,  over  a  pot  of  beer.  It  was 
there  that  I  heard  Hankin  defend  "arma- 
ments" as  conducive  to  the  Greatest  Happi- 
ness of  the  Greatest  Number.  Venturing 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  11 

to  assail  what  I  thought  a  preposterous  view, 
I  was  met  by  a  counter  attack  of  horse,  foot, 
and  artillery,  so  well  planned  and  vigorously 
sustained  that  in  the  end  I  wras  utterly  beaten 
from  the  field.  Had  Snarley  Bob  been  pres- 
ent, the  result  would  have  been  different; 
indeed,  there  would  have  been  no  result  to 
the  controversy  at  all.  He  would  have 
stopped  the  argument  ab  initio  by  affirming 
in  language  of  his  own,  perhaps  unprintable, 
that  the  whole  question  was  of  not  the  slight- 
est importance  to  anybody;  that  "them  as 
built  the  ships,  because  someone  had  argued 
'em  into  doing  it,  were  fools,  and  them  as 
did  the  arguing  were  bigger  fools  still";  the 
same  for  those  who  refrained  from  building; 
that,  in  short,  the  only  way  to  get  such  ques- 
tions settled  wras  "to  leave  'em  to  them  as 
knows  what's  what."  This  ignorant  and 
undemocratic  attitude  never  failed  to  divert 
Hankin  from  argument  to  recrimination, 
which  was  all  the  more  bitter  because  Bob 
had  a  way  of  implying,  mainly  by  the  move- 
ment of  his  horse-like  eyes,  that  he  himself 


12  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

was  one  of  those  who  knew  precisely  what 
"what"  was.  The  upshot  therefore  was  a 
row  between  shepherd  and  shoemaker — a 
thing  which  the  shepherd  enjoyed  in  the  same 
degree  as  he  hated  the  shoemaker's  argu- 
ments. 

Not  the  least  of  Mrs.  Abel's  improprieties 
was  her  open  patronage  of  Hankin.  The 
shoemaker  had  established  what  he  called  an 
Ethical  Society,  which  held  its  meetings  on 
Sunday  afternoons  in  the  barn  of  a  sympa- 
thetic farmer.  These  meetings,  which  were 
regularly  addressed  by  Hankin,  Mrs.  Abel 
used  frequently  to  attend.  The  effect  of  this 
was  twofold.  On  the  one  hand,  it  was  no 
small  stimulus  to  Hankin  that  among  the 
handful  of  uneducated  irreconcilables  who 
gathered  to  hear  him,  he  might  have  for  audi- 
tor one  of  the  keenest  and  most  cultivated 
minds  in  England — one  who,  as  he  was  well 
aware,  had  no  sympathy  with  his  opinions.  I 
once  heard  him  lecture  on  one  of  his  favourite 
topics  while  she  was  present,  and  I  must  say 
that  I  have  seldom  heard  a  bad  case  better 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  18 

argued.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Abel's 
presence  served  to  rob  his  lectures  of  much 
of  the  force  which  opinions,  when  condemned 
by  the  rich,  invariably  have  among  the  poor. 
She  was  shrewd  enough  to  perceive  that  ac- 
tive repression  of  Hankin,  who  she  well  knew 
could  not  be  repressed,  would  only  swell  his 
following  and  strengthen  his  position. 

This,  of  course,  was  not  understood  by  the 
local  guardians  of  morality  and  religion. 
After  vainly  appealing  to  Mr.  Abel,  who 
turned  an  absolutely  deaf  ear  to  the  petitioners, 
they  proceeded  to  lay  the  case  before  the 
Bishop,  who  happened  to  be,  unfortunately 
for  them,  one  of  the  most  courageous  and 
enlightened  prelates  of  his  time.  The  Bishop, 
on  whom  considerable  pressure  was  brought 
to  bear,  resolved  at  last  to  come  down  to 
Deadborough  and  have  an  interview  with  Mrs. 
Abel.  The  result  was  that  he  and  the  lady 
became  fast  and  lifelong  friends.  He  re- 
turned to  his  palace  determined  to  take  the 
risk,  and  to  all  further  importunities  he  merely 
returned  a  formal  answer  that  he  saw  no 


14  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

reason  to  interfere.  This  was  not  the  least 
daring  of  many  actions  which  have  dis- 
tinguished, by  their  boldness  and  common- 
sense,  the  record  of  a  singularly  noble  career. 
The  case  did  not  'get  into  the  papers ;  none  the 
less,  it  was  much  talked  of  in  clerical  circles, 
and  its  effect  was  to  give  the  Bishop  a  reputa- 
tion among  prelates  not  unlike  that  which 
Mrs.  Abel  had  won  among  clergymen's  wives. 
The  Bishop's  intervention  having  failed,  the 
party  of  repression  now  determined  on  the 
short  and  easy  way.  Hankin's  landlord  was 
Peter  Shott,  whose  holding  consisted  of  two 
small  farms  which  had  been  joined  together. 
In  the  house  belonging  to  one  of  these  farms 
lived  Hankin,  a  sub-tenant  of  Shott.  To 
Shott  there  came,  in  due  course,  a  hint  from 
an  exalted  quarter  that  it  would  be  to  his 
interests  to  give  Hankin  notice  to  quit.  Shott 
was  willing  enough,  and  presently  the  notice 
was  served.  It  was  a  serious  thing  for  the 
shoemaker,  for  he  had  a  good  business,  and 
there  was  no  other  house  or  cottage  available 
in  the  neighbourhood. 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  15 

In  the  interval  before  the  notice  expired 
announcements  appeared  that  the  estate  to 
which  Shott's  holding  belonged  was  to  be 
sold  by  auction  in  lots.  Shott  himself  was 
well-to-do,  and  promptly  determined  to  be- 
come the  purchaser  of  his  farm. 

There  were  several  bidders  at  the  sale,  and 
Shott  was  pushed  to  the  very  end  of  his 
tether.  He  managed,  however,  to  outbid 
them  all,  though  he  trembled  at  his  own 
temerity;  and  the  farm  was  on  the  point 
of  being  knocked  down  to  him  when  a  law- 
yer's clerk  at  the  end  of  the  room  went  ,£50 
better.  Shott  took  a  gulp  of  whisky  to 
steady  his  nerve  and  desperately  put  the 
price  up  fifty  more.  The  lawyer's  clerk 
immediately  countered  with  another  hundred, 
and  looked  as  though  he  was  ready  to  go  on. 
That  was  the  knock-down  blow.  Shott  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  and  dolefully  shook  his  head  in  response 
to  all  the  coaxings  and  blandishments  of 
the  auctioneer.  The  hammer  fell.  "Name, 
please,"  was  called;  the  lawyer's  clerk  passed 


16  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

up  a  slip  of  paper,  and  a  thunderbolt  fell  on 
the  company  when  the  auctioneer  read  out, 
"Mr.  Thomas  Hankin."  Hankin  had  bought 
the  farms  for  £4700.  "Cheque  for  deposit," 
said  the  auctioneer.  A  cheque  for  £470, 
previously  signed  by  Hankin,  was  immedi- 
ately filled  in  and  passed  up  by  the  lawyer's 
clerk. 

It  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  Abel  who  had 
advanced  the  money  to  the  shoemaker  on 
prospective  mortgage,  less  a  sum  of  £1000 
which  he  himself  contributed — the  savings  of 
his  life.  The  situation  became  interesting. 
Here  was  Hankin,  under  notice  to  quit, 
now  become  the  rightful  owner  of  his  own 
house  and  the  landlord  of  his  landlord. 
Everyone  read  what  had  happened  as  a 
deep-laid  scheme  of  vengeance  on  the  part 
of  Hankin  and  Mrs.  Abel,  of  whose  part 
in  the  transaction  no  secret  whatever  was 
made.  It  was  taken  for  granted  that  the 
evicted  man  would  now  retaliate  by  turning 
Shott  out  of  his  highly  cultivated  farm  and 
well-appointed  house.  The  jokers  of  the 


17 

Nag's  Head  were  delirious,  and  drank  gin  in 
their  beer  for  a  week  after  the  occurrence. 
Snarley  Bob  alone  drank  no  gin,  and  merely 
contributed  the  remark  that  "them  as  laughs 
last,  laughs  best." 

Meanwhile  the  shoemaker,  seated  at  his 
last,  was  carefully  pondering  the  position  in 
the  light  of  the  principles  of  Bentham  and 
Mill.  He  considered  all  the  possible  alterna- 
tives and  weighed  off  against  one  another  the 
various  amounts  of  pleasure  and  pain  involved, 
resolutely  counting  himself  as  "one  and  not 
more  than  one.'*  He  certainly  estimated  at 
a  large  figure  the  amount  of  pleasure  he  him- 
self would  derive  from  paying  Shott  in  his 
own  coin.  All  consideration  of  "quality" 
was  strictly  eliminated,  for  in  this  matter 
Hankin  held  rather  with  Bentham  than  with 
Mill.  The  sum  was  an  extremely  complicated 
one  to  work,  and  gave  more  exercise  to 
Hankin's  powers  of  moral  arithmetic  than 
either  armaments,  or  women's  suffrage,  or 
the  State  Church.  Mrs.  Abel  had  left  him 
free  to  do  exactly  as  he  liked ;  and  he  had 


18  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

nearly  determined  to  expel  Shott  when  it 
occurred  to  him  that  by  taking  the  other 
course  he  would  give  a  considerable  amount  of 
pleasure  to  the  Rector's  wife.  And  to  this 
must  be  added  the  pleasure  which  he  would 
derive  for  himself  by  pleasing  her,  and  further 
the  pleasure  of  his  chief  friend  and  enemy, 
Snarley  Bob,  on  discovering  that  both  of 
them  were  pleased.  Then  there  was  the 
question  of  his  own  reflected  pleasure  in 
the  pleasure  of  Snarley  Bob,  and  this  was 
considerable  also;  for  though  Hankin  de- 
nounced Bob  on  every  possible  occasion, 
yet  secretly  he  valued  his  good  opinion 
more  than  that  of  any  living  man.  It  is 
true  that  the  figures  at  which  he  estimated 
these  personal  quantities  were  very  small 
in  proportion  to  those  which  he  had  set 
down  to  the  more  public  aspects  of  the  case; 
for  his  principles  forbade  him  to  reckon  either 
Mrs.  Abel  or  Snarley  as  "more  than  one." 
Nevertheless,  small  as  these  figures  were, 
Hankin  found,  when  he  came  to  add  up  his 
totals  and  strike  off  the  balance  of  pains, 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  19 

that  they  were  enough  to  turn  the  scale.  He 
determined  to  leave  Shott  undisturbed,  and 
went  to  bed  with  that  feeling  of  perfect 
mental  satisfaction  which  did  duty  with  him 
for  a  conscience  at  peace. 

Notice  of  this  resolution  was  conveyed 
next  day  to  the  parties  concerned,  and  that 
night  Farmer  Shott,  who  was  a  pious  Metho- 
dist and  held  family  prayers,  instead  of 
imploring  the  Almighty  "to  defeat  the  wiles 
of  Satan,  now  active  in  this  village,"  put  up 
a  lengthy  petition  for  blessings  on  the  heads 
of  Shoemaker  Hankin  and  his  family,  men- 
tioning each  one  of  them  by  name,  and 
adding  such  particulars  of  his  or  her  special 
needs  as  would  leave  the  Divine  Benevolence 
with  no  excuse  for  mixing  them  up. 

With  all  his  hard-headedness  Hankin  com- 
bined the  graces  of  a  singularly  kind  and 
tender  heart.  He  held,  of  course,  that  there 
was  nothing  like  leather,  especially  for  mitiga- 
ting the  distress  of  the  orphan  and  causing 
the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy.  Every 
year  he  received  confidentially  from  the  school- 


20  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

mistress  a  list  of  the  worst-shod  children  in 
the  school,  from  whom  he  selected  a  dozen 
belonging  to  the  poorest  families,  that  he 
might  provide  each  of  them  at  Christmas 
with  a  pair  of  good,  strong  shoes.  The 
boots  of  labourers  out  of  work  and  of  other 
unfortunates  he  mended  free  of  cost,  regu- 
larly devoting  to  this  purpose  that  part  of 
the  Sabbath  which  was  not  occupied  in 
proving  the  non-existence  of  God.  There 
was,  for  instance,  poor  Mary  Henson — a 
loose  deserted  creature  with  illegitimate 
children  of  various  paternity,  and  another 
always  on  the  way — rejected  by  every  charity 
in  the  parish, — to  whom  Hankin  never  failed 
to  send  needed  footwear  both  for  herself  and 
her  brats. 

Further,  whenever  a  pair  of  shoes  had  to 
be  condemned  as  "not  worth  mending,"  he 
endeavoured  to  retain  them  for  a  purpose  of 
his  own,  sometimes  paying  a  few  pence  for 
them  as  "old  leather."  When  summer  came 
round  he  set  to  work  patching  the  derelicts  as 
best  he  could,  and  would  sometimes  have  thirty 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  21 

or  forty  pairs  in  readiness  by  the  end  of  June. 
This  was  the  season  when  the  neighbourhood 
was  annually  invaded  by  troops  of  pea-pickers 
— a  very  miscellaneous  collection  of  humanity 
comprising  at  the  one  extreme  broken  army 
men  and  university  graduates,  and  at  the 
other  the  lowest  riff-raff  of  the  towns.  It  was 
Hankin's  regular  custom  to  visit  the  camps 
where  these  people  were  quartered,  with  the 
avowed  object  of  "studying  human  nature," 
but  really  for  the  purpose  of  spying  out  the 
shoeless,  or  worse  than  shoeless,  feet.  He  was 
a  notable  performer  on  the  concertina,  and  I 
well  remember  seeing  him  in  the  middle  of  a 
pea-field,  surrounded  by  as  sorry  a  group  of 
human  wreckage  as  civilisation  could  pro- 
duce, listening,  or  dancing  to  his  strains. 
Hankin's  eyes  were  on  their  feet  all  the  time. 
When  the  performance  was  over  he  went 
round  to  one  and  another,  mostly  women,  and 
said  something  which  made  their  eyes  glisten. 
And  here  it  may  be  recorded  that  one  day, 
towards  the  end  of  his  life,  he  received  a  letter 
from  Canada  containing  a  remittance  for  fifty 


22  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

pounds.     The    writer,    Major      of    the 

North- West  Mounted  Police,  said  that  the 
money  was  payment  for  a  certain  pair  of  old 
shoes,  the  gift  of  which  "had  set  him  on  his 
feet  in  more  senses  than  one."  He  also  stated 
that  he  had  made  a  small  fortune  by  specula- 
ting in  town-lots,  and,  hearing  that  Hankin 
was  alive,  he  was  prepared  to  send  him  any 
further  sum  of  money  that  might  be  necessary 
to  secure  him  a  comfortable  old  age.  Major 

died  last  year,  and  left  by  his  will  the 

sum  of  £300  in  Consols  to  the  Rector  and 
churchwardens  of  Deadborough,  the  interest 
to  be  expended  annually  at  Christmas  in  pro- 
viding boots  and  shoes  for  the  poor  of  the 
parish. 

In  the  matter  of  trade  Hankin  was  prosper- 
ous, and  fully  deserved  his  prosperity.  He 
has  been  dead  four  years,  and  I  am  wearing  at 
this  moment  almost  the  last  pair  of  boots  he 
ever  made.  His  materials  were  the  best  that 
could  be  procured,  and  his  workmanship  was 
admirable.  His  customers  were  largely  the 
well-to-do  people  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  8S 

his  standard  price  for  walking-boots  was 
thirty-three  shillings.  He  was  by  no  means 
incapable  of  the  higher  refinements  of  "style," 
so  that  great  people  like  Lady  Passingham  or 
Captain  Sorley  were  often  heard  to  say  that 
they  preferred  his  goods  to  those  of  Bond 
Street.  He  did  a  large  business  in  building 
shooting-boots  for  the  numerous  parties  which 
gathered  at  Deadborough  Hall;  his  customers 
recommended  him  in  the  London  clubs,  where 
such  things  are  talked  of,  and  he  received 
orders  from  all  parts  of  the  country  and  at 
all  times  of  the  year.  He  might,  no  doubt, 
have  made  his  fortune.  But  he  would  have  no 
assistance  save  that  of  his  two  sons.  He  lived 
for  thirty-seven  years  in  the  house  from  which 
Shott  had  sought  to  expel  him,  refusing  all 
orders  which  exceeded  the  limited  working 
forces  at  his  command.  He  chartered  the 
corns  on  many  noble  feet;  he  measured  the 
gouty  toe  of  a  Duke  to  the  fraction  of  a  milli- 
metre, and  made  a  contour  map  of  all  its  ele- 
vations from  the  main  peak  to  the  foot-hills; 
and  it  was  said  that  a  still  more  Exalted  Per- 


24,  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

sonage  occasionally  walked  on  leather  of  his 
providing. 

Hankin  neglected  nothing  which  might  con- 
tribute to  the  success  of  his  work,  and  applied 
himself  to  its  principles  with  the  same 
thoroughness  which  distinguished  his  hand- 
ling of  the  Utilitarian  Standard.  One  of  his 
sons  had  emigrated  to  the  United  States  and 
become,  in  course  of  time,  the  manager  of  a 
large  boot  factory  in  Brockton,  Mass.  From 
him  Hankin  received  patterns  and  lasts  and 
occasional  consignments  of  American  leather. 
This  latter  he  was  inclined,  in  general,  to 
despise.  Nevertheless,  it  had  its  uses.  He 
found  that  an  outer-sole  of  hemlock-tanned 
leather  would  greatly  lengthen  the  working 
life  of  a  poor  man's  heavy  boot;  though  for 
want  of  suppleness  it  was  useless  for  goods 
supplied  to  the  "quality."  The  American 
patterns  and  lasts,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
treated  with  great  respect.  He  held  that 
they  embodied  a  far  sounder  knowledge  of 
the  human  foot  than  did  the  English  variety, 
and  found  them  a  great  help  to  his  trade 


SHOEMAKER   HANKIN  25 

in  giving  style,  comfort,  and  accuracy  of  fit. 
At  a  time  when  the  great  manufacturers  of 
Stafford  and  Northampton  were  blundering 
along  with  a  range  of  four  or  five  standard 
patterns,  Hankin,  in  his  little  shop,  was 
working  on  much  finer  intervals  and  pro- 
ducing nine  regular  sizes  of  men's  boots. 
Indeed,  his  ready-made  goods  were  so  excel- 
lent, and  their  "fit"  so  certain,  that  some  of 
his  customers  preferred  them,  and  ordered 
him  to  abandon  their  lasts. 

Such  was  Hankin's  manner  of  life  and  con- 
versation. If  there  is  such  a  place  as  heaven, 
and  the  reader  ever  succeeds  in  getting  there, 
let  him  look  out  for  Shoemaker  Hankin  among 
the  highest  seats  of  glory.  His  funeral  ora- 
tion was  pronounced,  though  not  in  public, 
by  Snarley  Bob.  "Shoemaker  Hankin  were 
a  great  man.  He'd  got  hold  o'  lots  o'  good 
things;  but  he'd  got  some  on  'em  by  the 
wrong  end.  He  talked  more  than  a  man  o' 
his  size  ought  to  ha'  done.  He  spent  his 
breath  in  proving  that  God  doesn't  exist,  and 
his  life  in  proving  that  He  does." 


TOWARDS  the  end  of  his  life  there  were  few 
persons  with  whom  Snarley  would  hold  con- 
verse, for  his  contempt  of  the  human  race  was 
immeasurable.  There  was  Mrs.  Abel  at  the 
Rectory,  whom  he  adored;  there  were  the 
Perrymans,  whom  he  loved;  and  there  was 
myself,  whom  he  tolerated.  There  was  also 
his  old  wife,  whom  he  treated  as  part  of 
himself,  neither  better  nor  worse.  With  other 
human  beings — saving  only  the  children — his 
intercourse  was  limited  as  far  as  possible  to 
interjectory  grunts  and  snarls — whence  his 
name. 

It  was  in  an  old  quarry  among  the  western 
hills,  on  a  bleak  January  day  not  long  before 
his  death,  that  I  met  Snarley  Bob  and  heard 
him  discourse  of  the  everlasting  stars.  The 

86 


SNAKLEY   BOB   ON   THE   STARS       *7 

quarry  was  the  place  in  which  to  find  Snarley 
most  at  his  ease.  In  the  little  room  of  his 
cottage  he  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  speak ; 
the  confined  space  made  him  restless;  and,  as 
often  as  not,  if  a  question  were  asked  him  he 
would  seem  not  to  hear  it,  and  would  presently 
get  up,  walk  out  of  the  door,  and  return  when 
it  pleased  him.  "He  do  be  growing  terrible 
absent-minded,"  his  wife  would  often  say  in 
these  latter  days.  "I'm  a'most  afraid  some- 
times as  he  may  be  took  in  a  fit."  But  in  the 
old  quarry  he  was  another  man.  The  open 
spaces  of  the  sky  seemed  to  bring  him  to  him- 
self. 

Many  a  time  on  a  summer  day  I  have 
watched  Mrs.  Abel's  horse  bearing  its  rider 
up  the  steep  slope  that  led  to  the  quarry, 
and  more  than  once  have  I  gone  thither  my- 
self only  to  find  that  she  had  forestalled  my 
hopes  of  an  interview.  "Snarley  Bob,"  she 
used  to  say  to  me,  with  a  frank  disregard  for 
my  own  feelings — "Snarley  Bob  is  the  one 
man  in  the  world  whom  I  have  found  worth 
talking  to." 


28  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

The  feature  in  Snarley's  appearance  that  no 
one  could  fail  to  see,  or,  having  seen,  for- 
get, was  the  extraordinary  width  between  the 
eyes.  It  was  commonly  said  that  he  had  the 
power  of  seeing  people  behind  his  back.  And 
so  doubtless  he  had,  but  the  thing  was  no 
miracle.  It  was  a  consequence  of  the  posi- 
tion of  his  eyes,  which,  like  those  of  a  horse, 
were  as  much  at  the  side  of  his  head  as  they 
were  in  front. 

Snarley's  manner  of  speech  was  peculiar. 
Hoarse  and  hesitating  at  first,  as  though  the 
physical  act  were  difficult,  and  rising  now  and 
then  into  the  characteristic  snarl,  his  voice 
would  presently  sink  into  a  deep  and  resonant 
note  and  flow  freely  onward  in  a  tone  of  sub- 
dued emphasis  that  was  exceedingly  impres- 
sive. Holding,  as  he  did,  that  words  are 
among  the  least  important  things  of  life,  Snar- 
ley  was  nevertheless  the  master  of  an  unforced 
manner  of  utterance  more  convincing  by  its 
quiet  indifference  to  effect  than  all  the  preter- 
natural pomposities  of  the  pulpit  and  the  high- 
pitched  logic  of  the  schools.  I  have  often 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   29 

thought  that  any  Cause  or  Doctrine  which 
could  get  itself  expressed  in  Snarley's  tones 
would  be  in  a  fair  way  to  conquer  the  world. 
Fortunately  for  the  world,  however,  it  is  not 
every  Cause,  nor  every  Doctrine,  which  would 
lend  itself  to  expression  in  that  manner. 

Seated  on  a  heap  of  broken  road  metal, 
with  a  doubled  sack  between  his  person  and 
the  stones,  and  with  his  short  pipe  stuck  out 
at  right  angles  to  his  profile,  so  that  he  could 
see  what  was  going  on  in  the  bowl,  Snarley 
Bob  discoursed,  at  intervals,  as  follows: 

'Yes,  sir,  there's  things  about  the  stars  that 
fair  knocks  you  silly  to  think  on.  And,  what's 
more,  you  can't  think  on  'em,  leastways  to  no 
good  purpose,  until  they  have  knocked  you 
silly.  Why,  what's  the  good  of  tellin'  a  man 
that  it's  ninety-three  millions  o'  miles  between 
the  earth  and  the  sun  ?  There's  lots  o'  folks 
as  knows  that;  but  there's  not  one  in  ten 
thousand  as  knows  what  it  means.  You  gets 
no  forrader  wi'  lookin'  at  the  figures  in  a  book. 
You  must  thin  yourself  out,  and  make  your 
body  lighter  than  air,  and  stretch  and  stretch 


30  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

at  yourself  until  you  gets  the  sun  and  planets, 
floatin'  like,  in  the  middle  o'  your  mind. 
Then  you  begins  to  get  hold  on  it.  Or  what's 
the  good  o'  sayin'  that  Saturn  has  rings  and 
nine  moons?  You  must  go  to  one  o'  them 
moons,  and  see  Saturn  half  fillin'  the  sky,  wi' 
his  rings  cuttin'  the  heavens  from  top  to 
bottom,  all  coloured  wi'  crimson  and  gold- 
then  you  begins  to  stagger  at  it.  That's  why 
I  say  you  can't  think  o'  these  things  till  they've 
knocked  you  silly.  Now  there's  Sir  Robert 
Ball — it's  knocked  him  silly,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
knowed  that  when  I  went  to  his  lecture,  by 
the  pictures  he  showed  us,  and  I  sez  to  myself, 
'Bob,'  I  sez,  *  that's  a  man  worth  listenin'  to.' 

;' You're  right,  sir.  I  wouldn't  pay  the 
least  attention  to  anything  you  might  say 
about  the  stars  unless  you'd  told  me  that  it 
knocked  you  silly  to  think  on  'em.  No,  and 
I  wouldn't  talk  to  you  about  'em  either.  You 
wouldn't  understand. 

"And,  as  you  were  sayin',  it  isn't  easy  to 
get  them  big  things  the  right  way  up. 
When  things  gets  beyond  a  certain  bigness 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   31 

you  don't  know  which  way  up  they  are; 
and  as  like  as  not  they're  standin'  on  their 
heads  when  you  think  they're  standin'  on 
their  heels.  That's  the  way  with  the  stars. 
They  all  want  lookin'  at  t'other  way  up  from 
what  most  people  looks  at  'em.  And  perhaps 
it's  a  good  thing  they  looks  at  'em  the  wrong 
way;  becos  if  they  looked  at  'em  the  right 
way  it  would  scare  'em  out  o'  their  wits, 
especially  the  women — same  as  it  does  my 
missis  when  she  hears  me  and  Mrs.  Abel  talkin'. 
Always  exceptin'  Mrs.  Abel;  you  can't  scare 
her;  and  she  sees  most  things  right  way  up, 
that  she  does! 

"But  when  it  comes  to  the  stars,  you  want 
to  be  a  bit  of  a  medium  before  you  can  get 
at  'em.  Oh  yes,  I've  been  a  medium  in 
my  time,  more  than  I  care  to  think  of,  and  I 
could  be  a  medium  again  to-morrow,  if  I 
wanted  to.  But  them's  the  only  sort  of 
folks  as  can  see  things  from  both  ends.  Most 
folks  only  look  at  things  from  one  end — and 
that  as  often  as  not  the  wrong  un.  Mediums 
looks  from  both  ends;  and,  if  they're  good  at 


32  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

it,  they  soon  find  out  which  end's  right.  You 
see,  some  on  'em — like  me,  for  instance — can 
throw  'emselves  out  o'  'emselves,  in  a  manner 
o'  speaking,  so  that  they  can  see  their  own 
bodies,  just  as  if  they  was  miles  away,  same  as 
I  can  see  that  man  walking  on  the  Dead- 
borough  Road. 

"Well,  I've  often  done  it,  and  many's  the 
story  I  could  tell  of  things  I've  seen  by 
day  and  night;  but  it  wasn't  till  I  went  to 
hear  Sir  Robert  Ball  as  the  grand  idea 
came  to  me.  'Why  not  throw  yerself  into 
the  stars,  Bob?'  I  sez  to  myself.  And,  by 
gum,  sir,  I  did  it  that  very  night.  How  I 
did  it  I  don't  know;  I  won't  say  as  there 
weren't  a  drop  o'  drink  in  it;  but  the  minute 
I'd  got  through,  I  felt  as  I'd  stretched  out 
wonderful  and,  blessed  if  I  didn't  find  myself 
standin'  wi'  millions  of  other  spirits,  right  in 
the  middle  o'  Saturn's  rings.  And  the  things 
I  see  there  I  couldn't  tell  you,  no,  not  if  you 
was  to  give  me  a  thousand  pounds.  Talk  o' 
spirits!  I  tell  you  there  was  millions  on  'em! 
And  the  lights  and  the  colours — oh,  but  it's 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   33 

no  good  talkin'!  I  looked  back  and  wanted 
to  know  where  the  earth  was,  and  there  I  see 
it,  dwindled  to  a  speck  o'  light. 

"Now  you  can  understand  why  I  keeps  my 
mouth  shut.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  talk 
of  them  things  to  a  lot  o'  folks  that's  got 
no  more  sense  nor  swine  ?  Not  me !  And 
what  else  is  there  that's  worth  talking  on? 
Who's  goin'  to  make  a  fuss  and  go  blatherin' 
about  this  and  that,  when  you  know  the 
whole  earth's  no  bigger  nor  a  pea?  My 
eyes!  if  some  o'  these  'ere  talkin'  politicians 
knowed  half  o'  what  I  know,  they'd  stop 
their  blowin'  pretty  quick. 

"There's  our  parson — and  he's  a  good  man, 
though  not  half  good  enough  for  her — why, 
you  might  as  well  talk  to  a  babby  three 
months  old!  If  I  told  him,  he'd  only  think 
I  was  crazy;  and  like  as  not  he'd  send  for 
old  Doctor  Kenyon  to  come  up  and  feel  my 
head,  same  as  they  did  wi'  Shepherd  Toller, 
Clun  Downs  way,  before  they  put  him  in  the 
asylum.  I  sometimes  says  to  my  missis  that 
it's  a  good  thing  I'm  a  poor  man  wi'  nowt 


34  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

but  a  flock  o'  sheep  to  look  after.  For  don't 
you  see,  sir,  when  once  you've  got  hold  o' 
the  bigness  o'  things  it's  all  one — flocks  o' 
sheep  and  nations  o'  men?  If  I  were  King 
o'  England,  or  Prime  Minister,  or  any  sort  o' 
great  man,  knowing  what  I  know,  I'd  only 
think  I  were  a  bigger  humbug  nor  the  rest. 
I  couldn't  keep  it  up.  But  bein'  only  a 
shepherd,  I've  got  nothing  to  keep  up,  and 
I'm  thankful  I  haven't. 

"I  allus  knows  when  folks  has  got  things 
wrong  end  up  by  the  amount  they  talks. 
When  you  get  'em  the  right  way  you  don't 
want  to  talk  on  'em,  except  it  may  be  to  one 
or  two,  like  Mrs.  Abel,  as  got  'em  the  same 
way  as  yourself.  So  when  you  hear  folks 
jawin',  you  can  allus  tell  what's  the  matter 


wi'  'em. 


"There's  old  Shoemaker  Hankin  at  Dead- 
borough.  Know  him?  Well,  did  you  ever 
hear  such  a  blatherin'  old  fool  ?  'All  these 
things  you're  mad  on,  Snarley,'  he  sez  to  me 
one  day,  'are  nowt  but  matter  and  force.' 
'Matter  and  force,'  I  sez;  'what's  them?' 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   35 

And  then  he  lets  on  for  half  a'  hour  trying 
to  tell  me  all  about  matter  and  force.  When 
he'd  done  I  sez,  'Tom  Hankin,  there's  more 
sense  in  one  o'  them  old  shoes  than  there 
is  in  your  silly  'ead.  You've  got  things  all 
wrong  end  up,  and  you're  just  baain'  at  'em 
like  a'  old  sheep!'  'How  can  you  prove  it?' 
he  sez.  'I  know  it,'  I  sez,  'by  the  row  you 
makes.'  It's  a  sure  sign,  sir;  you  take  my 
word  for  it. 

'Then  there's  all  these  parsons  preaching 
away  Sunday  after  Sunday.  Why,  doesn't 
it  stand  to  sense  that  if  they'd  got  things 
right  way  up,  there  they'd  be,  and  that  'ud 
be  the  end  on  it?  And  it's  because  they're 
all  wrong  that  they've  got  to  go  on  jawin'  to 
persuade  people  they're  right.  One  day  I  was 
in  Parson  Abel's  study.  'What's  all  them 
books  about  ? '  I  sez.  '  Religion,  most  on  'em,' 
sez  he.  'Well,'  I  sez,  'if  the  folks  as  wrote 
'em  had  got  things  right  way  up  they  wouldn't 
'a  needed  to  'a  wrote  so  many  books.' 

'Then,  agen,  there's  that  professor  as  comes 
fishin'  in  summer.  '  Mr.  Dellanow,'  he  sez  to 


36  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

me  one  day,  'I  take  a  great  interest  in  yer.' 
*  That's  a  darned  sight  more'n  I  take  in  you,'  I 
sez,  for  if  there's  one  thing  as  puts  my  bristles 
up  it's  bein'  told  as  folks  takes  a'  interest  in 
me.  'Well,'  he  sez,  for  he  wasn't  easy  to 
offend,  'I  want  to  'ave  a  talk.'  'What 
about  ? '  I  sez.  '  I  want  to  talk  about  the  stars 
and  the  space  as  they're  floatin'  in.'  'Has 
space  ever  knocked  yer  silly?'  I  sez.  'Yes,' 
he  sez,  'in  a  manner  o'  speakin'  it  has.'  'No,' 
I  sez,  'it  hasn't,  because  if  it  had  you  wouldn't 
want  to  talk  about  it.'  Well,  there  was  no 
stoppin'  'im,  and  at  last  he  gets  it  out  that 
space  is  just  a  way  we  have  o'  lookin'  at  things. 
I  know'd  well  enough  what  he  meant,  though 
I  could  see  as  he  were  puttin'  it  wrong  way  up. 
When  he'd  done  I  sez,  '  That's  all  right.  But 
suppose  space  wasn't  a  way  folks  have  o' 
lookin'  at  things,  but  something  else,  what 
difference  would  that  make?'  'I  don't  see 
what  you  mean,'  he  sez.  'That's  because  you 
don't  see  what  you  mean  yerself,'  I  sez. 
'You're  just  like  the  rest  on  'em — talkin' 
about  things  you've  never  seen,  but  only 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   37 

heard  other  folks  talkin'  about.  You're  in 
the  same  box  wi'  Shoemaker  Hankin  and  the 
parsons  and  all  the  lot  an  'em.  What's  the 
good  o'  jawin'  about  space  when  you've  never 
been  there  yourself?  I  have.  I've  seen  more 
space  in  one  minute  than  you've  ever  heard 
talk  on  since  you  were  born.  Don't  tell  me! 
If  you  could  see  what  I've  seen  you'd  never 
say  another  word  about  space  as  long  as  yer 
lived.' 

"But  you  was  askin'  what  bein'  a  medium 
has  got  to  do  wi'  knowin'  about  the  stars. 
More  than  some  folks  think.  They're  two 
roads  leadin'  to  the  same  place.  Both  on  'em 
are  ways  o'  gettin'  to  the  right  end  of  things. 
What's  wrong  wi'  the  mediums  is  that  they 
haven't  got  line  enough.  They  only  manage 
to  get  just  outside  their  own  skins;  but  what's 
wanted  is  to  get  right  on  to  the  edge  of  the 
world  and  then  look  back.  That's  what  the 
stars  ^teaches  you.to  do;  and  when  you've  done  > 
it — my  word!  it  turns  yer  clean  inside  out! 

"There's  lots  of  nonsense  in  mediums;  but 
there's  no  nonsense  in  the  stars.      And  it's 


38  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  stars  that's  goin'  to  knock  the  nonsense 
out  o'  the  mediums,  you  mark  my  word!  I 
found  that  out,  for,  as  I  was  tellin'  you,  I  used 
to  be  one  myself,  and  am  one  now,  for  the 
matter  o'  that. 

"Now  you  listen  to  what  I'm  goin'  to  tell 
you.  There's  lots  o'  spirits  about:  but  they 
don't  talk,  at  least  not  as  a  rule,  and  they 
don't  wrant  to  talk;  and  when  the  mediums 
make  'em  talk,  they're  liars!  Spirits  has 
better  ways  o'  doin'  things  than  talkin'  on 
'em.  That's  what  you  finds  out  when  you 
gives  yourself  a  long  line  and  gets  out  to  the 
edge  o'  the  world.  Then  you  looks  back, 
and  you  sees  that  the  whole  thing's  alive.  It 
looks  you  straight  in  the  face;  and  you  can 
see  it  thinkin'  and  smilin'  and  frownin'  and 
doin'  things,  just  as  I  can  see  you  at  this 
minute.  Do  you  think  the  stars  can't  under- 
stand one  another?  They  can  do  it  a  sight 
better  than  you  and  me  can.  And  they  do  it 
without  speakin'  a  word.  That,  I  tell  you, 
is  what  you  sees  when  you  lets  your  line  out 
to  the  edge! 


SNARLEY  BOB  ON  THE  STARS   39 

"And  when  you've  seen  it  you  don't  bother 
any  more  wi'  makin'  the  spirits  rap  on  tables 
and  such  like.  What's  the  sense  o'  tryin' 
to  find  out  whether  you'll  be  a  spirit  after 
you're  dead  when  you  know  there's  nothing 
else  anywhere?  But  it's  no  good  talkin'. 
If  you're  not  a  bit  of  a  medium  yourself 
you'll  never  understand — no,  not  if  I  was  to 
go  on  talkin'  till  both  on  us  are  frozen  to 
death.  And  I  reckon  you're  pretty  cold 
already — you  look  it.  Come  down  the  hill 
wi'  me,  and  I'll  get  my  missis  to  make  yer  a 
cup  o'  hot  tea." 


"  SNARLEYCHOLOGY" 

I.    THEORETICAL 

FARMER  FERRYMAN  was  rich,  and  it  was 
Snarley  Bob  who  had  made  him  so.  Now 
Snarley  was  a  cunning  breeder  of  sheep.  For 
three-and-forty  years  he  had  applied  his  in- 
tuitions and  his  patience  to  the  task  of  pro- 
ducing rams  and  ewes  such  as  the  world  had 
never  seen.  His  system  of  "observation  and 
experiment"  was  peculiarly  his  own;  it  is 
written  down  in  no  book,  but  stands  recorded 
on  barn-doors,  on  gate-posts,  on  hurdles,  and 
on  the  walls  of  a  wheeled  box  which  was 
Snarley's  main  residence  during  the  spring 
months  of  the  year.  It  is  a  literature  of 
notches  and  lines — cross,  parallel,  perpen- 
dicular, and  horizontal — of  which  the  chief 

40 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  41 

merit  in  Snarley's  eyes  was  that  nobody  could 
understand  it  save  himself.  But  it  was  enough 
to  give  his  faculties  all  the  aid  they  required. 
By  such  simple  means  he  succeeded  long  ago 
in  laying  the  practical  basis  of  a  life's  work, 
evolving  a  highly  complicated  system  con- 
trolled by  a  single  principle,  and  yet  capable 
of  manifold  application.  The  Ferryman 
flock,  now  famous  among  sheep-breeders  all 
over  the  world,  was  the  result. 

Thirty  years  ago  this  flock  was  the  admira- 
tion and  the  envy  of  the  whole  countryside. 
Young  farmers  with  capital  were  confident 
that  they  were  going  to  make  money  as  soon 
as  they  began  to  breed  from  the  Ferryman 
strain.  To  have  purchased  a  Ferryman  ram 
was  to  have  invested  your  money  in  a  gilt- 
edged,  but  rising,  stock.  The  early  "  eighties  " 
were  times  of  severe  depression  in  those  parts ; 
capital  was  scarce,  farmers  were  discouraged, 
and  the  flocks  deteriorated.  At  the  present 
moment  there  is  no  more  prosperous  corner 
in  agricultural  England,  and  the  basis  of  that 
prosperity  is  the  life-work  of  Snarley  Bob. 


42  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

The  fame  of  that  work  is  now  world-wide, 
though  the  author  of  it  is  unknown.  The 
Ferryman  rams  have  been  exported  into 
almost  every  sheep-raising  country  on  the 
globe.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  their  de- 
scendants are  now  nibbling  food,  and  con- 
verting it  into  fine  mutton  and  long-stapled 
wool,  in  Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  and 
the  Argentine.  Only  last  summer  I  saw  a 
large  animal  meditating  procreation  among 
the  foot-hills  of  the  Rockies,  and  was  informed 
of  the  fabulous  price  of  his  purchase — fabulous 
but  commercially  sound,  for  the  animal  was 
a  Ferryman  ram,  and  the  owner  was  sublimely 
confident  of  being  "up  against  a  sure  thing." 
Many  fortunes  have  been  made  from  that 
source;  and  there  are  perhaps  millions  of 
human  beings  now  eating  mutton  or  wearing 
cloth  who,  if  they  could  trace  the  authorship 
of  these  good  things,  would  stand  up  and 
bless  the  memory  of  Snarley  Bob. 

One  day  among  the  hills  I  met  the  old 
man  in  presence  of  his  charge,  like  a  general 
reviewing  his  troops.  As  the  flock  passed 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  43 

on  before  us  the  professional  reticence  of 
Snarley  was  broken,  and  he  began  to  talk 
of  the  animals  before  him,  pointing  to  this 
and  to  that.  Little  by  little  his  remarks 
began  to  remind  me  of  something  I  had  read 
in  a  book.  On  returning  home,  I  looked  the 
matter  up.  The  book  was  a  treatise  on 
Mendelism,  and,  as  I  read  on,  the  link  was 
strengthened.  Meeting  Snarley  Bob  a  few 
days  afterwards,  I  did  my  best  to  communi- 
cate what  I  had  learnt  about  Mendelism.  He 
listened  with  profound  attention,  though,  as  I 
thought,  with  a  trace  of  annoyance.  He 
made  some  deprecatory  remarks,  quite  in 
character,  about  "learned  chaps  as  goes  'um- 
buggin'  about  things  they  don't  understand. 
But  in  the  end  he  was  forced  to  confess  some 
interest  in  what  he  had  heard.  "Them  fel- 
lers," he  said,  "is  on  the  right  road;  but  they 
don't  know  where  they're  goin',  and  they  don't 
go  far  enough."  "How  much  further  ought 
they  to  go?"  I  asked.  For  answer  Snarley 
pointed  to  rows  of  notches  on  a  five-barred 
gate  and  said,  "It's  all  there."  Whether  it 


44  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

is  "all  there"  or  not  I  cannot  tell;  for  the 
secret  of  those  notches  was  never  revealed  to 
me,  and  the  brain  which  held  it  lies  under 
eight  feet  of  clay  in  Deadborough  churchyard. 
Perhaps  Snarley  is  now  discussing  the  matter 
with  "the  tall  Shepherd"1  in  some  nook  of 
Elysium  where  the  winds  are  less  keen  than 
they  used  to  be  on  Quarry  Hill. 

Had  Snarley  received  a  due  share  of  the 
unearned  increment  which  his  own  and  his 
rams'  achievements  brought  into  other  hands 
he  would  probably  have  died  a  millionaire. 
But  for  all  his  toil  and  skill  he  received  no 
more  than  a  shepherd's  wage.  There  were  not 
wanting  persons,  of  course,  who  regarded  his 
condition  as  a  crucial  instance  of  the  exceed- 
ing rottenness  of  our  present  industrial  sys- 
tem. There  was  a  great  lady  from  London, 
named  Lady  Lottie  Passingham,  who  resolved 
to  take  up  the  case.  Lady  Lottie  belonged 
to  the  class  who  look  upon  the  universe  as  a 
leaky  old  kettle  and  themselves  as  tinkers 
appointed  by  Providence  to  mend  the  holes. 

»See  post,  "The  Death  of  Snarley  Bob." 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  45 

That  Snarley's  position  represented  a  hole  of 
the  first  magnitude  was  plain  enough  to  Lady 
Lottie  the  moment  she  became  acquainted 
with  the  facts.  Her  first  step  was  to  interest 
her  brother,  the  Earl  of  Clodd,  a  noted  breeder 
of  pedigree  stock,  on  the  old  man's  behalf; 
her  second,  to  rouse  the  slumbering  soul  of  the 
victim  to  a  sense  of  the  injustice  of  his  lot.  I 
believe  she  succeeded  better  with  her  brother 
than  with  Snarley;  for  with  him  she  utterly 
failed.  Her  discourse  on  the  possibilities  of 
bettering  his  position  might  as  well  have  been 
spoken  into  the  ears  of  the  senior  ram;  and  if 
the  ram  had  responded,  as  he  probably  would, 
by  pinning  Lady  Lottie  against  the  wall  of  the 
barn,  her  overthrow  would  have  been  no  more 
complete  nor  unmerited  than  that  she  actually 
received  from  Snarley  Bob. 

For  it  so  happened  that  Providence,  in 
equipping  the  lady  for  her  world-mending 
mission,  had  forgotten  to  give  her  a  pleasant 
voice.  Now  if  there  was  one  thing  in  the 
world  which  made  Snarley  "madder"  than 
anything  else  could  do,  it  was  the  high- 


46  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

pitched,  strident  tones  of  a  woman  engaged 
in  argument.  The  consequence  was  that  his 
self-restraint  broke  down,  and  before  the  lady 
had  said  half  the  things  she  had  meant  to 
say,  or  come  within  sight  of  the  splendid 
offer  she  was  going  to  make  on  behalf  of  the 
Earl  of  Clodd,  Snarley  had  spoken  words  and 
performed  actions  which  caused  his  benefac- 
tress to  retreat  from  the  farmyard  with  her 
nose  in  the  air,  declaring  she  "would  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  the  horrid  brute." 
She  was  not  the  first  of  Snarley 's  would-be 
benefactors  who  had  formed  the  same  resolve. 
Now  this  extraordinary  conduct  on  Snar- 
ley's  part  was  by  no  means  due  to  any  tran- 
scendental contempt  for  money.  I  have  my- 
self offered  him  many  a  half-crown,  which  has 
never  been  refused;  and  Mrs.  Abel,  unless 
I  am  much  mistaken,  has  given  him  many 
a  pound.  Still  less  did  it  originate  from 
rustic  contentment  with  a  humble  lot;  nor 
from  a  desire  to  act  up  to  his  catechism,  by 
being  satisfied  with  that  station  in  life  which 
Providence  had  assigned  him.  For  there  was 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  47 

no  more  restless  soul  within  the  four  seas  of 
Britain,  and  none  less  willing  to  govern  his 
conduct  by  moral  saws.  And  stupidity,  which 
would  probably  have  explained  the  facts  in 
the  case  of  any  other  dweller  in  those  parts, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of  in  Snarley's  case. 
"I  knew  what  the  old  gal  was  drivin'  at  before 
she'd  finished  the  text,"  said  Snarley  to  me. 
The  truth  is  that  he  was  afflicted  with  an 
immense  and  incurable  arrogance  which 
caused  him  to  resent  the  implication,  by 
whomsoever  offered,  that  he  was  worse  off 
than  other  people.  It  was  Snarley's  distinc- 
tion that  he  was  able  to  maintain,  and  carry 
off,  as  much  pride  on  eighteen  shillings  a  week 
as  would  require  in  most  people  at  least  fifty 
thousand  a  year  for  effective  sustenance.  Of 
course,  it  was  not  the  eighteen  shillings  a  week 
that  made  him  proud;  it  was  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  inner  resources  which  his 
would-be  benefactors  knew  not  of.  He  re- 
garded them  all  as  his  inferiors,  and,  had  he 
known  how  to  do  it,  he  would  have  treated 
them  de  haul  en  bas.  Ill-bred  insolence  was 


48  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

therefore  his  only  weapon;  but  his  use  of  this 
was  as  effective  as  if  it  had  been  the  well-bred 
variety  in  the  hands  of  the  grandest  of  grand 
seigneurs.  No  wonder,  then,  that  he  failed 
to  achieve  the  position  to  which,  in  the  view  of 
Lady  Lottie  Passingham,  his  talents  entitled 
him. 

But  the  inner  resources  of  which  I  have 
spoken  were  Snarley's  sufficient  compensation 
for  his  want  of  worldly  success.  The  com- 
position of  this  hidden  bread,  it  is  true,  was 
somewhat  singular  and  not  easy  to  imitate. 
If  the  reader,  when  he  has  learned  its  ingre- 
dients, choose  to  call  it  "religion,"  there  is 
certainly  nothing  to  prevent  him.  But  that 
was  not  the  word  that  Snarley  used,  nor  the 
one  he  would  have  approved  of.  In  his  own 
limited  nomenclature  the  elements  of  his 
spiritual  kingdom  were  two  in  number — "the 
stars"  and  "the  spirits." 

Snarley's  knowledge  of  the  heavens  was 
extensive,  if  not  profound.  On  any  fair  view 
of  profundity,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it 
was  profound,  though  of  the  technique  of 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  49 

astronomy  he  knew  but  little.  He  had  all 
the  constellations  at  his  fingers*  ends,  and  had 
given  to  many  of  them  names  of  his  own; 
he  knew  their  seasons,  their  days,  even  their 
hours;  he  knew  the  comings  and  goings  of 
every  visible  planet;  by  day  and  night  the 
heavens  were  his  clock.  It  was  characteristic 
of  him  that  he  seldom  spoke  of  the  weather 
when  "passing  the  time  of  day" — a  thing 
which  he  never  did  except  to  his  chosen 
friends.  He  spoke  almost  invariably  of  the 
planets  or  the  stars.  "Good  morning,  the 
sun's  very  low  at  this  time  o*  year — did  you 
see  the  lunar  halo  last  night? — a  fine  lot  o' 
shootin'  stars  towards  four  o'clock,  look  for 
'em  again  to-morrow  in  the  nor'-west — you 
can  get  your  breakfast  by  moonlight  this  week 
— Old  Tabby  [Orion]  looks  well  to-night — 
you'd  better  have  a  look  at  Sirius  afore  the 
moon  arises,  I  never  see  him  so  clear  as  he 
is  now" — these  were  the  greetings  which 
Snarley  offered  "to  them  as  could  under- 
stand" from  behind  the  hedge  or  within  the 
penfold. 


50  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

But  it  was  not  from  superficialities  of  this 
kind  that  the  depth  of  his  stellar  interests  was 
to  be  measured.  I  once  told  him  that  a  great 
man  of  old  had  declared  that  the  stars  were 
gods.  "So  they  are,  but  I  wonder  how  he 
found  that  out,*'  said  Snarley;  "because  you 
can't  find  it  out  by  lookin'  at  'em.  You  may 
look  at  'em  till  you're  blind,  and  you'll  never 
see  anything  but  little  lights."  "It  was  just 
his  fancy,"  I  said,  like  a  simpleton.  "Fancy 

be !"  said  Snarley.  "It's  a  plain  truth — 

that  is,  it's  plain  enough  for  them  as  knows 
the  way." 

"What's  that?"  I  said. 

"It's  a  way  as  nobody  can  take  unless 
they're  born  to  it.  And,  what's  more,  it's  a 
way  as  nobody  can  understand  unless  they're 
born  to  it.  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  other  day 
that  there's  only  one  sort  of  folks  as  can  tell 
what  the  stars  are — and  that's  the  folks  as  can 
get  out  o'  their  own  skins  ?  And  they're  not 
many  as  can  do  that.  But  that  man  you 
were  just  talkin'  of,  as  said  the  stars  were 
gods,  he  must  ha'  done  it.  It's  my  opinion 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  51 

that  in  the  old  days  there  was  more  folks  as 
could  get  out  o'  their  skins  than  there  are  now. 
I  sometimes  wish  I'd  been  born  in  the  old 
days.  I  should  ha'  had  somebody  to  talk 
to  then.  I've  got  hardly  anybody  now.  And 
you  get  tired  sometimes  o'  keepin'  yerself  to 
yerself.  If  I  were  a  learned  man  I'd  be 
readin'  them  old  books  day  and  night." 

"What  about  the  Bible?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  old  book,"  said 
Snarley;  "but  there's  some  things  in  it  that's 
no  good  to  anybody — except  to  talkin*  men" 

"Who  are  they?"  I  said. 

"Why,  folks  as  doesn't  understand  things, 
but  only  likes  to  talk  about  'em:  parsons — at 
least,  more  nor  half  on  'em — ay,  and  these  'ere 
politicians  too,  for  the  matter  o'  that.  There's 
some  folks  as  dresses  up  in  fine  clothes,  and 
there's  some  as  dresses  up  in  fine  words:  one 
sort  wants  to  be  looked  at,  and  the  other  wants 
to  be  listened  to.  Doesn't  it  stand  to  sense 
that  it's  just  the  same  ?  Bless  your  'eart,  it's 
all  show!  Why,  there's  lots  o'  men  as  goes 
huntin'  about  till  they  finds  a  bit  o'  summat 


52  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

as  they  think  'ud  look  well  if  they  dressed  it 
up  in  talk.  'Ah,'  they  say  to  themselves, 
*  that'll  just  do  for  me;  that's  what  I'm  goin' 
to  believe;  when  it's  got  its  Sunday  clothes  on 
it'll  look  like  a  regular  lord.'  Well,  there's 
plenty  o'  that  sort  about;  and  you  can  allus 
tell  'em  by  the  'oiler  sound  as  they  makes. 
And  them's  the  folks  as  spoils  the  old  Bible. 

"Not  but  what  there's  things  in  the  Bible  as 
is  'oiler  to  begin  wi'.  But  there's  plenty  that 
isn't,  if  these  talkin'  chaps  'ud  only  leave  it 
alone.  Now,  here's  a  bit  as  I  calls  tip-top: 
'When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of 
thy  fingers'  (here  Snarley  quoted  several 
verses  of  the  Eighth  Psalm). 

"Now,  when  you  gets  hold  on  a  bit  like 
that,  you  don't  want  to  go  dressin'  on  it  up. 
You  just  puts  it  in  your  pipe  and  smokes  it, 
and  then  it  does  you  good!  That's  it! 

"There's  was  once  a  Salvation  Army  man  as 
come  and  asked  me  if  I  accepted  the  Gospel. 
'Yes,  my  lad,'  I  sez;  'I've  accepted  it — but 
only  as  a  thing  to  smoke,  riot  as  a  thing  to 
go  bangin'  about.  Put  your  drum  in  the  cup- 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  63 

board,  my  lad,'  I  sez;  'and  put  the  Gospel 
in  your  pipe,  and  you'll  be  a  wiser  man.' 

"As  for  all  this  'ere  argle-bargling  about 
them  big  things,  there's  nowt  in  it,  you  take 
my  word  for  that!  The  little  things  for 
argle-bargle,  the  big  uns'  for  smokin',  that's 
what  /  sez!  Put  the  big  'uns  in  your  pipe, 
sir;  put  'em  in  your  pipe,  and  smoke  'em!" 

These  last  words  were  spoken  in  tones  of 
great  solemnity  and  repeated  several  times. 

" That's  good  advice,  Snarley,"  I  said;  "but 
the  writer  you  just  quoted  hadn't  got  a  pipe 
to  put  'em  in." 

"Didn't  need  one,"  said  Snarley;  "there 
weren't  so  many  talkin'  men  about  in  his  time. 
Folks  then  were  born  right  end  up  to  begin 
wi',  and  didn't  need  to  smoke  'emselves  round. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  I  often  think  about  them  old 
days — and  it's  the  Bible  as  set  me  thinkin'  on 
'em.  That's  the  only  old  book  as  I  ever  read. 
And  there's  some  staggerers  in  it,  I  can  tell 
you!  Wonderful!  If  some  o'  them  old 
Bible  men  could  come  back  and  hear  the 
parsons  talkin'  about  'em — eh,  my  word, 


54  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

there  would  be  a  rumpus!  I'd  like  to  see  it, 
that  I  would!  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  sir — 
and  don't  you  forget  it — you'll  never  under- 
stand the  old  Bible,  leastways  not  the  best 
bits  in  it,  so  long  as  you  only  wants  to  talk 
about  'em,  same  as  a  man  allus  wants  to  do 
when  he's  stuck  inside  his  own  skin.  Now, 
there's  that  bit  about  the  heavens,  as  I  just 
give  you — that's  a  bit  o'  real  all-right,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "it  is." 

"Well,  can't  you  see  as  the  man  as  said 
them  words  had  just  let  himself  out  to  the 
other  end  o'  the  line  and  was  lookin'  back? 
He'd  got  himself  right  into  the  middle  o'  the 
bigness  o'  things,  and  that's  what  you  can't 
do  as  long  as  you  keeps  inside  your  own  skin. 
But  I  tell  you  that  when  you  gets  outside  for 
the  first  time  it  gives  you  a  pretty  shakin'  up. 
You  begins  to  think  what  a  fool  you've  been 
all  your  life  long." 

Beyond  such  statements  as  these,  repeated 
many  times  and  in  many  forms,  I  could  get 
no  light  on  Snarley's  dealings  with  the  heavens. 

To  interpret  his  dealings  with  "the  spirits" 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  55 

is  a  still  harder  task.  It  was  one  of  his  com- 
mon sayings  that  this  matter  also  could  not  be 
discussed  in  terms  intelligible  to  the  once-born. 
That  he  did  not  mean  by  "spirits"  what  the 
vulgar  might  suppose,  is  certain.  It  is  true 
that  at  one  time  he  used  to  attend  spiritualistic 
seances  held  in  a  large  neighbouring  village, 
and  he  was  commonly  regarded  as  a  "me- 
dium." This  latter  term  was  adopted  by 
Snarley  in  many  conversations  I  had  with 
him  as  a  true  description  of  himself.  But 
here  again  it  was  obvious  that  he  used  the 
term  only  for  want  of  a  better.  He  never 
employed  it  without  some  sort  of  caveat,  ut- 
tered or  implied,  to  the  effect  that  the  word 
must  be  taken  with  qualifications — unstated 
qualifications,  but  still  suggestive  of  impor- 
tant distinctions. 

It  is  noteworthy  in  this  connection  that  a 
bitter  quarrel  existed  between  Snarley  and  the 
spiritualists  with  whom  he  had  once  been 
associated.  They  had  cast  him  forth  from 
among  them  as  a  smoking  brand;  and  Snar- 
ley on  his  part  never  lost  a  chance  of  denoun- 


56  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

cing  them  as  liars  and  rogues.  One  of  the 
most  violent  scenes  ever  witnessed  in  the  tap- 
room of  the  Nag's  Head  had  been  perpetrated 
by  Snarley  on  a  certain  occasion  when  Shoe- 
maker Hankin  was  defending  the  thesis  that 
all  forms  of  religion  might  now  be  considered 
as  done  for,  "except  spiritualism."  Even 
Hankin,  who  reverenced  no  thing  in  heaven 
or  earth,  had  protested  against  the  unprint- 
able words  which  with  Snarley  greeted  his 
logic;  while  the  landlord  (Tom  Barter  of 
happy  memory),  himself  the  lowest  black- 
guard in  the  village,  had  suggested  that  he 
should  "draw  it  mild." 

This  reminds  me  that  Snarley  regarded 
strong  drink  as  a  means,  and  a  legitimate 
means,  for  obtaining  access  to  hidden  things; 
nor  did  he  scruple  at  times  to  use  it  for  that 
end.  "There's  nowt  like  a  drop  o'  drink  for 
openin*  the  door"  he  remarked.  "But  only 
for  them  as  is  born  to  it.  If  you're  not  born 
to  it,  drink  shuts  the  door  on  you  tighter  nor 
ever.  There's  not  one  man  in  ten  that  drink 
doesn't  make  a  bigger  fool  of  than  he  is  al- 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  57 

ready.  Look  at  Shoemaker  Hankin.  Half 
a  pint  of  cider'll  set  him  hee-hawin'  like  the 
Rectory  donkey.  But  there's  some  men  as 
can't  get  a  lift  no  other  way.  It's  like  that 
wi'  me  sometimes.  There's  weeks  and  weeks 
together  when  I'm  fair  stuck  inside  my  own 
skin  and  can't  get  out  on  it  nohow.  That's 
when  I  know  a  drop'll  do  me  good.  I  can 
a'most  hear  something  go  click  in  my  head, 
and  then  I  gets  among  'em"  (the  spirits)  "in 
no  time.  A  pint's  mostly  enough  to  do  it; 
but  sometimes  it  takes  a  quart;  and  once  or 
twice  I've  had  to  go  on  till  somebody's  had  to 
help  me  home.  But  when  once  I  begins  I 
never  stops  till  I  see  the  door  openin' — and 
then  not  a  drop  more!" 


"  SNARLEYCHOLOGY" 

II.  EXPERIMENTAL 

ONE  day  I  was  discussing  with  Mrs.  Abel  the 
oft-recurrent  problem  of  Snarley's  peculiar 
mental  constitution,  a  subject  to  which  she 
had  given  the  name  "Snarleychology."  Her 
knowledge  of  the  old  man's  ways  was  of  longer 
date  than  mine,  and  she  understood  him  in- 
finitely better  than  I.  "Suppose,  now,"  I  said 
"that  Snarley  had  been  able  to  express  him- 
self after  the  manner  of  superlative  people 
like  you  and  me,  what  would  have  come  of 
it?"  "Art,"  said  Mrs.  Abel,  "and  most 
probably  poetry.  He's  just  a  mass  of  in- 
tuitions!" "What  a  pity  they  are  inarticu- 

1 1  suggested  to  Mrs  Abel  that  this  word  wouldn't  do, 
and  proposed  "  Snarleyology "  instead.  She  declined  the 
improvement  at  once,  remarking  that  '  the  aoul  of  the  word 
was  in  the  ch,' 

58 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  59 

late!"  I  answered,  repeating  the  appropriate 
commonplace.  "But  they  are  not  inarticu- 
late," said  Mrs.  Abel.  "Snarley  has  found 
a  medium  of  expression  which  gives  him  per- 
fect satisfaction."  "Then  the  poems  ought 
to  be  in  existence,"  said  I.  "So  they  are," 
was  the  answer;  "they  exist  in  the  shape  of 
Farmer  Ferryman's  big  rams.  The  rams  are 
the  direct  creations  of  genius  working  upon 
appropriate  material.  None  but  a  dreamer  of 
dreams  could  have  brought  them  into  being; 
every  one  of  them  is  an  embodied  ideal. 
Don't  make  the  blunder  of  thinking  that 
Snarley's  sheep-raising  has  nothing  to  do 
with  his  star-gazings  and  spirit-rappings.  It's 
all  one.  Shakespeare  writes  Hamlet,  and 
Snarley  produces  *  Thunderbolt. '  To  call 
Snarley  inarticulate  because  he  hasn't  written 
a  Hamlet  is  as  absurd  as  it  would  be  to  call 
Shakespeare  inarticulate  because  he  didn't 
produce  a  *  Thunderbolt.'  Both  Hamlet  and 
*  Thunderbolt '  were  born  in  the  highest  heaven 

1  The  name  of  the  greatest  of  the  Ferryman  rams — a 
brute  "  with  more  decorations  than  a  Field-marshal." 


60  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

of  invention.  Both  are  the  fruit  of  intuitions 
concentrated  on  their  object  with  incredible 
pertinacity. " 

I  was  forced  into  silence  for  a  time,  be- 
wildered by  a  statement  which  seemed  to 
alternate  between  levelling  the  big  things 
down  to  the  little  ones,  and  raising  the  little 
ones  to  the  level  of  the  big.  When  I  had 
chewed  this  hard  saying  as  well  as  I  could,  I 
bolted  it  for  further  digestion,  and  continued 
the  conversation.  "Has  Snarley,"  I  asked, 
"ever  been  tried  with  poetry,  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  term?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  lady,  "an  experiment  was 

once  made  on  him  by  Miss "  (naming  a 

literary  counterpart  to  Lady  Lottie  Passing- 
ham),  "who  visited  him  in  his  cottage  and  in- 
sisted on  reading  him  some  poem  of  Whittier's. 
In  ten  minutes  she  was  fleeing  from  the  cot- 
tage in  terror  of  her  life,  and  no  one  has  since 
repeated  the  experiment." 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "that  if  you  would  con- 
sent to  be  the  experimenter  we  might  obtain 
better  results." 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  61 

Now  in  one  important  respect  Nature  had 
dealt  more  bountifully  with  Mrs.  Abel  than 
with  Lady  Lottie  Passingham.  Though  Mrs. 
Abel  had  no  desire  to  reform  the  universe,  and 
was  conscious  of  no  mission  to  that  end,  she 
possessed  a  voice  which  might  have  produced 
a  revolution.  It  was  a  soft  contralto,  vibrant 
and  rich,  and  tremulous  with  tones  which  the 
gods  would  have  come  from  Olympus  to  hear. 
She  never  sang,  but  her  speech  was  music, 
rich  and  rare.  In  early  life,  as  I  have  said, 
she  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  Art  had  com- 
pleted the  gifts  of  Nature.  Here  lay  one  of 
the  secrets  of  her  power  over  the  soul  of 
Snarley  Bob.  Her  voice  was  hypnotic  with 
all  men,  and  Snarley  yielded  to  it  as  to  a 
spell. 

Another  point  which  has  its  bearing  on  this, 
and  also  on  what  has  to  follow,  is  that  Snarley 
had  a  passionate  love  for  the  song  of  the 
nightingale.  The  birds  haunted  the  district 
in  great  numbers,  and  the  time  of  their  sing- 
ing was  the  time  when  Snarley  "let  out  his 
line"  to  its  furthest  limits.  His  love  of  the 


62  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

nightingale  was  coupled,  strangely  enough, 
with  a  hatred  equally  intense  for  the  cuckoo. 
To  the  song  of  the  cuckoo  in  early  spring  he 
was  fairly  tolerant;  but  in  June,  when,  as 
everybody  knows,  "she  changeth  her  tune," 
Snarley's  rage  broke  forth  into  bitter  perse- 
cution. He  had  invented  a  method  of  his 
own,  which  I  shall  not  divulge,  for  snaring 
these  birds;  and  whenever  he  caught  them  he 
promptly  wrung  their  necks.  For  the  same 
reason  he  would  have  been  not  unwilling  to 
wring  the  necks  of  Lady  Lottie  Passingham 
and  of  the  Literary  Counterpart  had  they  con- 
tinued to  pester  him. 

Here  then  were  the  conditions  from  which 
we  drew  the  materials  for  our  conspiracy. 
Mrs.  Abel,  though  at  first  reluctant,  consented 
at  last  to  play  the  active  part  in  a  new  piece 
of  experimental  Snarleychology.  It  was  de- 
termined that  we  would  try  our  subject  with 
poetry,  and  also  that  we  would  try  him  with 
"something  big."  For  a  long  time  we  dis- 
cussed what  this  something  "big"  was  to  be. 
Choice  nearly  fell  on  "A  Grammarian's 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  63 

Funeral,"  but  I  am  glad  this  was  not  adopted; 
for,  though  it  represented  very  well  our  own 
views  of  Snarley  Bob,  I  doubt  if  it  would 
have  appealed  directly  to  the  subject  himself. 
At  length  one  of  us  suggested  Keats'  "Ode  to 
a  Nightingale,"  to  which  the  other  immediately 
replied,  "Why  didn't  we  think  of  that  be- 
fore?" It  was  the  very  thing. 

But  how  were  we  to  proceed?  We  knew 
very  well  that  a  deliberately  planned  attempt 
to  "read  something"  to  Snarley  was  sure  to 
fail.  He  would  suspect  that  we  were  "in- 
terested in  him  "  in  the  way  he  always  resented, 
or  that  we  wanted  to  improve  his  mind,  which 
was  also  a  thing  he  could  not  bear.  Still,  we 
might  practice  a  little  artful  deception.  We 
might  meet  him  together  by  accident  in  the 
quarry,  as  we  had  done  before;  and  Mrs.  Abel, 
after  due  preliminaries  and  a  little  leading-on 
about  nightingales,  might  produce  the  volume 
from  her  pocket  and  read  the  poem.  So  it 
was  arranged.  But  I  think  we  parted  that 
night  with  a  feeling  that  we  were  going  to  do 
something  ridiculous,  and  Mr.  Abel  told  me 


64  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

quite  frankly  that  we  were  a  pair  of  precious 
fools. 

One  lovely  morning  about  the  middle  of 
April  the  desired  meeting  in  the  quarry  was 
duly  brought  off.  The  lambing  season  was 
almost  over,  and  Snarley  was  occupied  in 
looking  after  a  few  belated  ewes.  We  arrived, 
of  course,  separately;  but  there  must  have 
been  something  in  our  manner  which  put 
Snarley  on  his  guard.  He  looked  at  us  in 
turn  with  glances  which  plainly  told  that  he 
suspected  a  planned  attack  on  the  isolation  of 
his  soul.  Presently  he  lapsed  into  his  most 
disagreeable  manner,  and  his  horse-like  face 
began  to  wear  a  singularly  brutal  expression. 
It  was  one  of  his  bad  days;  for  some  time  he 
had  evidently  been  "stuck  in  his  skin,"  and 
probably  intended  to  end  his  incarceration 
that  very  night  by  getting  drunk.  He  was, 
in  fact,  determined  to  drive  us  away,  and, 
though  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Abel  disarmed 
him  of  his  worst  insolence,  he  managed  to 
become  sufficiently  unpleasant  to  make  us 
both  devoutly  wish  we  were  at  the  bottom  of 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  65 

the  hill.  I  shudder  to  think  what  would  have 
happened  in  these  circumstances  to  Lady 
Lottie  Passingham  or  to  the  Literary  Counter- 
part. 

The  thing,  however,  had  cost  too  much 
trouble  to  be  lightly  abandoned,  and  we  did 
not  relish  the  prospect  of  being  greeted  by 
peals  of  laughter  if  we  returned  defeated  to 
the  Rectory.  In  desperation,  therefore,  Mrs. 
Abel  began  to  force  the  issue.  "I'm  told 
the  nightingale  was  heard  in  the  Rectory 
grounds  last  night,  Snarley."  "Nightingales 
be  blowed,"  replied  the  Subject.  "I've  no 
time  to  listen  if  there  was  a  hundred  singin'. 
I've  been  up  with  these  blessed  ewes  three 
nights  without  a  wink  o'  sleep,  and  we've  lost 
two  lambs  as  were  got  by  '  Thunderbolt. ' 
"Well,  some  time,  when  you  are  not  quite  so 
busy,  I  want  you  to  hear  what  a  great  man 
has  written  about  the  nightingale,"  said  Mrs. 
Abel.  She  spoke  in  a  rather  forced  voice, 
which  suggested  the  persuasive  tones  of  the 
village  curate  when  addressing  a  church-full 
of  naughty  children  at  the  afternoon  service. 


66  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"7  don't  want  to  hear  it,"  said  Snarley, 
whose  suspicions  were  now  raised  to  certitude, 
"and,  what's  more,  I  won't  hear  it.  What's 
the  good  ?  If  anybody's  been  talkin'  about 
nightingales,  it's  sure  to  be  rubbish.  Night- 
ingales is  things  you  can't  talk  about,  but  only 
listen  to.  No,  thank  you,  my  lady.  When  I 
wants  nightingales,  I'll  go  and  hear  'em.  I 
don't  want  to  know  what  nobody  had  said 
about  'em.  Besides,  I've  too  much  to  think 
about  with  these  'ere  ewes.  There's  one  lyin' 
dead  behind  them  stones  as  I've  got  to  bury. 
She  died  last  night;"  and  he  began  to  ply  us 
with  disgusting  details  about  the  premature 
confinement  of  a  sheep. 

It  was  all  over.  Mrs.  Abel  remounted  her 
horse,  and  presently  rode  down  the  hill. 
When  she  had  gone  fifty  yards  or  so,  she  took 
a  little  calf-bound  volume  of  Keats  from  her 
pocket  and  held  it  aloft.  The  signal  was  not 
difficult  to  read.  "Yes,"  it  said,  "we  are  a 
pair  of  precious  fools." 

Five  months  elapsed,  during  which  I  neither 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  67 

saw  nor  much  desired  to  see  Mrs.  Abel.  The 
harvest  was  now  gathered,  and  the  event  was 
to  be  celebrated  by  a  "harvest  home"  in  the 
Perrymans'  big  barn.  They  were  kind  enough 
to  send  me  the  usual  invitation,  which  I  ac- 
cepted ''with  pleasure" — a  phrase  in  which, 
for  once  in  my  frequent  use  of  it,  I  spoke  the 
truth.  The  prospect  of  going  down  to  Dead- 
borough  served,  of  course,  to  revive  the  painful 
memory  of  our  humiliating  defeat.  Looked 
at  in  the  perspective  of  time,  our  enterprise 
stood  out  in  all  its  essential  folly.  But  I  have 
frequently  found  that  the  contemplation  of  a 
past  mistake  has  a  strange  tendency  to  cause 
its  repetition;  and  it  was  so  in  this  case.  For 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  this  "harvest 
home"  might  give  us  an  opportunity  for  a 
flank  attack  on  the  soul  of  Snarley  Bob, 
whereby  we  might  retrieve  the  disaster  of  our 
frontal  operations  on  Quarry  Hill.  I  lost  no 
time  in  divulging  my  plan  in  the  proper 
quarters.  Mrs.  Abel  replied  exactly  as  Lam- 
bert did  when  Cromwell,  "walking  in  the 
garden  of  Brocksmouth  House,"  told  him  of 


68  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

that  sudden  bright  idea  for  rolling  up  the 
Scottish  army  at  Dunbar — "She  had  meant 
to  say  the  same  thing."  The  plan  was  simple 
enough;  but  had  its  execution  rested  with 
any  other  person  than  Mrs,  Abel — with  the 
Literary  Counterpart,  for  example — it  would 
have  miscarried  as  completely  as  its  fore- 
runner. 

The  company  assembled  in  the  Perrymans' 
barn  consisted  of  the  labouring  population  of 
three  large  farms,  men  and  women,  all  dressed 
in  their  Sunday  best.  To  these  were  added, 
as  privileged  outsiders,  his  Reverence  and  Mrs. 
Abel,  the  popular  stationmaster  of  Dead- 
borough,  Tom  Barter — who  supplied  the 
victuals — and  myself.  Good  meat,  of  course, 
was  in  abundance,  and  good  drink  also — the 
understanding  with  regard  to  the  latter  being 
that,  though  you  might  go  the  length  of  get- 
ting "pretty  lively,"  you  must  stop  short  of 
getting  drunk. 

The  proceedings  commenced  in  comparative 
silence,  the  rustics  communicating  with  one 
another  only  by  such  whispers  as  might  be 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  69 

perpetrated  in  church.  But  this  did  not  last 
very  long.  From  the  momnet  the  first  turn 
was  given  to  the  tap  in  the  cider-barrel,  the 
attentive  observer  might  have  detected  a  rapid 
crescendo  of  human  voices,  which  rose  into  a 
roar  long  before  the  end  of  the  feast.  When 
all  had  eaten  their  fill,  songs  were  called  for, 
and  "Master"  Ferryman,  of  course,  led  off 
with  "The  Farmer's  Boy." 

Others  followed.  I  was  struck  by  the  fact 
that  nearly  all  the  songs  were  of  an  extremely 
melancholy  nature — the  chief  objects  cele- 
brated by  the  Muse  being  withered  flowers, 
little  coffins,  the  corpses  of  sweethearts,  last 
farewells,  and  hopeless  partings  on  the  lonely 
shore.  Tears  flow;  ladies  sigh;  voices  choke; 
hearts  break;  children  die;  lovers  prove  un- 
true. It  was  tragic,  and  I  confess  I  could  have 
wept  myself — not  at  the  songs,  for  they  were 
stupid  enough, — but  to  think  of  the  grey 
lugubrious  life  whose  keynote  was  all  too 
truly  struck  by  this  morbid,  melancholy  stuff. 

Tom  Barter,  who  had  been  in  the  army, 
and  was  just  convalescent  from  a  bad  turn  of 


70  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

delirium  tremens,  sang  a  song  about  a  dying 
soldier,  visited  on  his  gory  bed  by  a  succession 
of  white-robed  spirits,  including  his  little 
sister,  his  aged  mother,  and  a  young  female 
with  a  babe,  whom  the  dying  hero  appeared 
to  have  treated  none  too  well. 

The  song  was  vigorously  encored,  and  Tom 
at  once  responded  with  a  second — and  I  have 
no  doubt,  genuine — barrack-room  ballad. 
The  hero  of  this  ditty  is  a  "Lancer  bold." 
He  is  duly  wetted  with  tears  before  his  depar- 
ture for  the  wars ;  but  is  cheered  up  at  the  last 
moment  by  the  lady's  assurance  that  she  will 
meet  him  on  his  return  in  "a  carriage  gay." 
Arrived  at  the  front,  he  performs  the  usual 
prodigies:  slashes  his  way  through  the  smoke, 
spikes  the  enemy's  guns,  and  spears  "Afghani- 
stan's chief  tans"  right  and  left.  He  then 
returns  to  England,  dreaming  of  wedding 
bells,  and  we  next  see  him  on  the  deck  of  a 
troop-ship,  scanning  the  expectant  throng  on 
the  shore  and  asking  himself,  "Where,  oh 
where,  is  that  carriage  gay?"  Of  course,  it 
isn't  there,  and  the  disconsolate  Lancer  at 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  71 

once  repairs  to  the  "smiling"  village  whence 
the  lady  had  intended  to  issue  in  the  carriage. 
Here  he  is  met  by  "a  jet-black  hearse  with 
nodding  plumes,"  seeks  information  from  the 
weeping  bystanders,  and  has  his  worst  sus- 
picions confirmed.  He  compares  the  gloomy 
vehicle  before  him  with  the  "carriage  gay" 
of  his  dreams,  and,  having  sufficiently  elabo- 
rated the  contrast,  resolves  to  end  his  blighted 
existence  on  the  lady's  grave.  How  he  spends 
the  next  interval  is  not  told;  but  towards  mid- 
night we  find  him  in  the  churchyard  with  his 
"trusty"  weapon  in  his  hand.  This,  in  keep- 
ing with  the  unities,  should  have  been  a  lance; 
but  apparently  the  Lancer  was  armed  on 
some  mixed  principle  known  to  the  War 
Office,  and  allowed  to  take  his  pick  of  weapons 
before  going  on  leave;  for  presently  a  shot 
rings  out,  and  one  of  England's  stoutest  cham- 
pions is  no  more. 

During  the  singing  of  this  song  I  noticed  a 
poorly  clad  girl,  with  a  sweet,  intelligent  face, 
put  a  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  and  stifle  a 
sob.  She  quietly  made  her  way  towards  the 


72  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

barn  door,  and  presently  slippeed  out  into  the 
night. 

The  thing  had  not  escaped  the  notice  of 
Snarley  Bob,  and  I  could  see  wrath  in  his  eyes. 
Being  near  him,  I  asked  what  it  meant.  "By 
God!"  he  said,  "it's  a  good  job  for  Tom 
Barter  as  the  rheumatiz  has  crippled  my  old 
hands.  If  I  could  only  double  my  fist,  I'd 
put  a  mark  on  his  silly  jaw  as  'ud  stop  him 
singing  that  song  for  many  a  day  to  come. 
Not  that  there's  any  sense  in  it.  But  it's  just 
because  there's  no  sense  in  'em  that  such  songs 
oughtn't  to  be  sung.  See  that  young  woman 
go  out  just  now?  Well,  she's  in  a  decline, 
and  knows  as  she  can't  last  very  long.  And 
she's  got  a  young  man  in  India — in  the  same 
battery  as  our  Bill — as  nice  and  straight  a  lad 
as  ever  you  see." 

Another  song  was  called  "Fallen  Leaves," 
the  singer  being  a  son  of  Peter  Shott,  the 
local  preacher — a  young  man  of  dissipated  ap- 
pearance, with  a  white  face  and  an  excellent 
tenor  voice.  This  song,  of  course,  was  a  dis- 
quisition on  the  evanescence  of  all  things  here 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  73 

below.     Each  verse  began  "I  saw,"  and  ended 
with  the  refrain: 

"Fallen  leaves,  fallen  leaves! 
With  woe  untold  my  bosom  heaves, 
Fallen  leaves,  fallen  leaves!" 

"I  saw,"  said  the  song,  a  mixed  assortment 
of  decaying  glories — among  them,  a  pair  of 
lovers  on  a  seat,  a  Christmas  family  party,  a 
rosebush,  a  railway  accident  on  Bank  Holiday, 
a  rake's  deathbed,  a  battlefield,  an  oak  tree 
in  its  pride,  and  the  same  oak  in  process  of 
being  converted  by  an  undertaker  into  a  coffin 
for  the  poet's  only  friend.  All  these  and 
many  more  the  poet  "saw"  and  buried  in  his 
fallen  leaves,  assuring  the  world  that  his  bosom 
heaved  with  woe  untold  for  every  one  of 
them. 

Tom  Barter,  who  was  the  leading  emotion- 
alist in  the  parish,  was  visibly  affected,  his 
bosom  heaving  in  a  manner  which  the  poet 
himself  could  not  have  excelled;  while  his  poor 
anaemic  wife,  who  had  hesitated  about  coming 
to  the  feast  because  her  eye  was  still  dis- 
coloured from  the  blow  Tom  had  given  her 


74  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

last  week,  feebly  expressed  the  hope  "that 
it  would  do  him  good." 

So  it  went  on.  Whatever  jocund  rebecks 
may  have  sounded  in  the  England  of  long  ago, 
their  strains  found  no  echo  in  the  funeral 
ditties  of  the  Perrymans'  feast. 

Snarley  Bob,  in  whom  the  drink  had  kindled 
some  hankering  for  eternal  splendours,  was 
well  content  with  the  singing  of  "The  Farmer's 
Boy,"  and  joined  in  the  chorus  with  the  rem- 
nants of  a  once  mighty  voice.  After  that  he 
became  restless  and  increasingly  snappish ;  his 
face  darkened  at  "Fallen  Leaves/'  and  he 
began  to  look  positively  dangerous  when  a 
young  man  who  was  a  railway  porter  in  town, 
now  home  for  a  holiday,  made  a  ghastly 
attempt  at  merriment  by  singing  a  low-class 
music-hall  catch.  What  he  would  have  done 
or  said  I  do  not  know,  for  at  that  moment 
the  announcement  was  made  which  the  reader 
has  been  expecting — that  Mrs.  Abel  would 
give  a  recitation. 

"Now,"  said  Snarley  to  his  neighbour,  "we 
shall  have  summat  like."  His  whole  being 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  75 

sprang  to  attention.  He  rapidly  knocked  out 
the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  refilled,  and  lit;  and, 
folding  his  arms  before  him  on  the  table, 
leant  forward  to  listen.  For  my  part,  I  took 
a  convenient  station  where  I  could  watch 
Snarley,  as  Hamlet  watched  the  king  in  the 
play.  He  was  far  too  intent  on  Mrs.  Abel 
to  notice  me. 

The  barn  was  dimly  lighted,  and  the 
speaker,  standing  far  back  from  the  end  of 
the  table,  was  in  deep  shadow  and  almost  in- 
visible. Has  the  reader  ever  heard  a  voice 
which  trembles  with  emotions  gathered  up 
from  countless  generations  of  human  expe- 
rience— a  voice  in  which  the  memories  of  ages, 
the  designs  of  Nature,  the  woes  and  triumphs 
of  evolving  worlds  become  articulate;  a  voice 
that  speaks  a  language  not  of  words,  but  of 
things,  transmuting  the  eternal  laws  to  tones, 
and  pouring  into  the  soul  by  their  means  a 
stream  of  solicitations  to  the  secret  springs 
of  the  buried  life?  Such  voices  there  are: 
Wordsworth  heard  one  of  them  in  the  song  of 
"The  Solitary  Reaper."  In  such  a  voice, 


76  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

rolling  forth  from  the  shadows,  and  in  ex- 
quisite articulation,  there  came  to  us  these 
words : 

"My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  steals  my  sense, 

As  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains, 

One    minute    past,    and    Lethewards    had    sunk." 

The  noisy  crew  were  hushed:  silence  fell 
like  a  palpable  thing.  Snarley  Bob  shifted  his 
position:  he  raised  his  arms  from  the  table, 
grasped  his  chin  with  his  right  hand;  with 
his  left  he  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
pointed  its  stem  at  the  speaker;  his  features 
relaxed,  and  then  fixed  into  the  immobility 
of  the  worshipping  saint. 

Observation  was  difficult;  for  I,  too,  was 
half  hypnotised  by  the  voice  from  the  shadows ; 
but  what  I  remember  I  will  tell. 

The  voice  has  now  finished  the  second  verse, 
and  is  entering  the  third,  the  note  slightly  raised, 
and  with  a  tone  like  that  of  a  wailing  wind: 

"That  I  might  drink  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And,  with  thee,  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim. 

Fade  far   away,   dissolve,   and   quite   forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known." 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  77 

Snarley  Bob  rises  erect  in  his  place,  still 
holding  his  chin  with  his  right  hand,  and 
with  the  left  pointing  his  pipe,  as  before, 
at  the  speaker.  The  rigid  arm  is  trembling 
violently,  and  Snarley,  with  half-open  mouth, 
is  drawing  his  breath  in  gulps.  Someone,  his 
wife  I  think,  tries  to  make  him  sit  down.  He 
detaches  his  right  hand, .and  violently  thrusts 
her  away. 

For  some  minutes  he  remains  in  this  atti- 
tude. The  verse: 

"Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird," 

is  now  reached,  and  I  can  see  that  violent 
tremors  are  passing  through  Snarley 's  frame. 
His  head  has  sunk  towards  his  breast,  and  is 
shaking;  his  right  arm  has  fallen  to  his  side, 
the  fingers  hooked  as  though  he  would  clench 
his  fist.  Thus  he  stands,  his  head  jerking 
now  and  then  into  an  upright  position,  and 
shaking  more  and  more.  He  has  ceased  to 
point  at  the  speaker;  the  pipe  is  on  the  table. 
Thus  to  the  end. 

Somebody  claps;  another  feebly  knocks  his 


78  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

glass  on  the  board;  there  is  a  general  whisper 
of  "Hush!"  Snarley  Bob  has  sunk  on  to  the 
bench;  he  folds  his  arms  on  the  table,  rests 
his  head  upon  them  as  a  tired  man  would  do; 
a  tremor  shakes  him  once  or  twice;  then  he 
closes  his  eyes,  and  is  still.  He  has  appar- 
ently fallen  asleep. 

No  one,  save  myself,  has  paid  much  atten- 
tion to  Snarley,  who  is  at  the  end  of  the  room 
furthest  from  Mrs.  Abel.  But  now  his  atti- 
tude is  noticed,  and  somebody  says,  "Hullo 
Snarley's  had  a  drop  too  much  this  time. 
Give  him  a  shake-up,  missis.'* 

The  "shake-up,"  however,  is  not  needed. 
For  Snarley,  after  a  few  minutes  of  apparent 
sleep,  raises  his  head,  looks  round  him,  and 
again  stands  upright.  A  flood  of  incoher- 
encies,  spoken  in  a  high-pitched,  whining 
voice,  pours  from  his  lips.  Now  and  then 
comes  a  clear  sentence,  mingled  with  frag- 
ments of  the  poem — these  in  a  startling  re- 
production of  Mrs.  Abel's  tones — thus:  "The 
gentleman's  callin'  for  drink.  Why  don't  they 
bring  him  drink  ?  Here,  young  woman,  bring 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  79 

him  a  pint  o'  ale,  and  put  three-ha'porth  of 
gin  in  it — the  door's  openin',  and  he's  goin' 
through.  He'll  soon  be  there — 

"'Fade  far  away,   dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known.' 

All  right — it's  bloomin'  well  all  right — don't 
give  him  any  more. 

"'Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain.' 

— It's  the  Passing  Bell. — What  are  they  ring- 
ing it  for? — He's  not  dead — he'll  come  back 
again  when  he's  ready. — Stop  'em  ringing  that 
bell! 

"'Forlorn!    the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self.' 

All  right — he's  comin'  back. — Nightingales! — 
Who  wants  to  hear  about  a  lot  o'  bloomin' 
nightingales.  /  don't.  I'm  all  right — get  me 
a  cup  o'  tea. — It's  Tom  Barter  who's  drunk, 
not  me! 

'"Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.' 

The    mail    goes    o'    Fridays  —  K    Battery, 


80  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

Peshawur,  Punjaub — O  my  God,  let  Bill  tell 
him! — Shut  up,  you  blasted  old  fool,  or  I'll 
knock  yer  silly  head  off!  You'll  never  get 
there! — What  do  you  know  about  nightin- 
gales ?  I  heard  'em  singin'  for  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  years  before  you  were  born: 

"Thou  was  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird, 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  heard  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days,  by  Emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  voice  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn, 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.'" 

The  whole  of  this  verse  was  a  reproduction 
of  Mrs.  Abel's  rendering,  spoken  in  a  voice  not 
unlike  hers,  and  with  scarcely  the  falter  of  a 
syllable.  It  was  followed  by  a  few  seconds  of 
incoherent  babble,  at  the  end  of  which  tremors 
again  broke  out  over  Snarley's  body;  he 
swayed  to  and  fro,  and  his  head  fell  forward  on 
his  chest.  "Catch  hold  of  him,  or  he'll  fall," 
cried  somebody.  Then  a  medley  of  voices 
— "Give  him  a  drop  of  brandy!"  "No, 


"SNARLEYCHOLOGY"  81 

don't  you  see  he's  dead  drunk  a'ready?" 
"Drunk!  not  'im.  Do  you  think  he  could 
imitate  Mrs.  Abel  like  that  if  he  was  drunk?" 
'Take  them  gels  out  o'  the  barn  as  quick  as 
you  can!"  "If  she  don't  stop  shriekin'  when 
you  get  'er  home,  throw  a  bucket  o'  cold  water 
over  her.  It's  only  'isterics."  "Well,  I've 
seed  a  lot  o'  queer  things  in  my  time,  and  I've 
knowed  Snarley  to  do  some  rum  tricks, .  but  I 
never  seed  nowt  like  that."  "Oh  dear,  sir, 
I  never  felt  so  upset  in  all  my  life.  It  isn't 
right!  Somebody  ought  to  ha*  stopped  'im. 
I  wonder  Mr.  Abel  didn't  interfere."  "That 
there  poem  o'  Mrs.  Abel's  was  a'most  too 
much  for  me.  But  to  think  o'  him  gettin'  up 
like  that!  It  must  be  Satan'  that's  got  into 
him."  "It's  a  awful  thing  to  'ave  a  man  like 
that  livin'  in  the  next  cottage  to  your  own. 
I'll  be  frightened  out  o'  my  wits  when  my 
master's  not  at  'ome."  "They  ought  to  do 
something  to  'im — I've  said  so  many  a  time." 
And  then  the  voice  of  Snarley's  wife  as  she 
chafed  her  husband's  hands:  "No,  sir,  don't 
you  believe  'em  when  they  say  he's  drunk. 


82  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

He's  only  had  two  glasses  of  cider  and  half  a 
glass  o'  beer.  You  can  see  the  other  half  in 
his  glass  now.  I  counted  'em  myself.  And 
it  takes  quarts  to  make  'im  tipsy.  It's  a  sort 
of  trance,  sir,  as  he's  had.  I've  knowed  him 
like  this  two  or  three  times  before.  He  was 
just  like  it  after  he'd  been  to  hear  Sir  Robert 
Ball  on  the  stars,  sir — worse,  if  any  thin'.  He's 
gettin'  better  now;  but  I'm  afraid  he'll  be 
terrible  upset." 

Snarley  had  opened  his  eyes,  and  was  look- 
ing vacantly  and  sleepily  round  him.  "I'll 
go  home,"  was  all  he  said.  He  got  up  and 
walked  rather  shakily,  but  without  assistance, 
out  of  the  barn. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Abel  came  up  to 
me.  "We  were  fools  five  months  ago,"  she 
said;  "but  what  are  we  now?" 

"Criminals,  most  likely,"  I  replied. 

"And  if  you  do  it  again,  you'll  be  mur- 
derers," said  Mr.  Abel,  in  a  tone  of  severity. 


A  MIRACLE 


IN  early  life  Chandrapdl  had  been  engaged 
in  the  practice  of  the  law,  and  had  held  a 
position  of  some  honour  under  the  Crown. 
But  as  the  years  wore  on  the  ties  which  bound 
him  to  the  world  of  sense  were  severed  one  by 
one,  and  he  was  now  released.  By  the  study 
of  the  Vedanta,  by  ascetic  discipline,  and  by 
the  daily  practice  of  meditation  undertaken 
at  regular  hours,  he  had  attained  the  Great 
Peace;  and  those  who  knew  the  signs  of  such 
attainment  reverenced  him  as  a  holy  man. 
His  influence  was  great,  his  fidelity  was  un- 
questioned, and  his  fame  as  a  teacher  and 
sage  had  been  carried  far  beyond  his  native 
land. 

Chandrapdl  was  versed  in  the  lore  of  the 

83 


84  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

West.  He  had  studied  the  history,  the 
politics,  the  literature  and  philosophy  of  the 
great  nations,  and  could  quote  their  poets  and 
their  sages  with  copiousness  and  aptitude. 
He  had  written  a  commentary  on  Faust.  He 
also  read,  and  sometimes  expounded,  the  New 
Testament;  and  he  held  the  Christian  Gospel 
in  high  esteem. 

Among  the  philosophers  of  the  West  it  was 
Spinoza  to  whom  he  gave  the  place  of  highest 
honour.  Regarding  the  Great  Peace  as  the 
ultimate  object  of  human  attainment,  he  held 
that  Spinoza  alone  had  found  a  clear  path  to 
the  goal;  since  then  European  thought  had 
been  continually  decadent. 

Though  far  advanced  in  life,  Chandrapal 
had  never  seen  Western  civilisation  face  to  face 
until  the  year  when  we  are  about  to  meet  him. 
He  travelled  to  America  by  way  of  Japan, 
and  Vancouver  was  the  first  Western  city  in 
which  he  set  his  foot.  There  he  looked  around 
him  with  bewildered  eyes,  gaining  no  clear 
impression,  save  in  the  negative  sense  that 
the  city  contained  nothing  to  remind  him  of 


A   MIRACLE  85 

Spinoza  or  of  the  Nazarene.  It  was  not  that 
he  expected  to  find  a  visible  embodiment 
of  :|  their  teaching  in  everything  he  saw ; 
Chandrapdl  was  too  wise  for  that.  But  he 
hoped  that  somewhere  and  in  some  form  the 
Truth,  which  for  him  these  teachers  symbol- 
ised in  common,  would  show  itself  as  a  living 
thing.  It  might  be  that  he  would  see  it  on 
some  human  face;  or  he  might  feel  it  in  the 
atmosphere;  or  he  might  hear  it  in  the  voice 
of  a  man.  Chandrap&l  knew  that  he  had 
much  to  see  and  to  discover;  but  in  all  his 
travels  it  was  for  this  that  he  kept  incessant 
watch. 

From  Vancouver  he  passed  south  to  San 
Francisco;  thence,  city  by  city,  he  threaded 
his  way  across  the  United  States  and  found 
himself  in  New  York.  All  that  he  had  seen 
so  far  gathered  itself  into  one  vast  picture  of 
a  world  fast  bound  in  the  chains  of  error  and 
groaning  for  deliverance  from  its  misery.  In 
New  York  the  misery  seemed  to  deepen  and 
the  groanings  to  redouble.  But  of  this  he 
said  nothing.  He  let  the  universities  fete 


86  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

him;  he  let  the  millionaires  entertain  him  in 
their  great  houses;  he  delivered  lectures  on 
the  wisdom  of  the  East,  and,  though  a  kindly 
criticism  would  now  and  then  escape  him,  he 
gave  no  hint  of  his  great  pity  for  Western 
men.  He  was  the  most  courteous,  the  most 
delightful  of  guests. 

Arrived  in  England,  he  received  the  same 
impression  and  practised  the  same  reserve. 
Wherever  he  went  a  rumour  spread  before 
him,  and  men  waited  for  his  coming  as  though 
the  ancient  mysteries  were  about  to  be  un- 
sealed. The  curious  cross-examined  him; 
the  bewildered  appealed  to  him;  the  poor 
heard  him  gladly,  and  famished  souls,  eager 
for  a  morsel  of  comfort  from  the  groaning 
table  of  the  East,  hovered  about  his  steps. 
He  preached  in  churches  where  the  wander- 
ing prophet  is  welcomed;  he  broke  bread  with 
the  kings  of  knowledge  and  of  song;  he  sat 
in  the  seats  of  the  mighty  and  received 
honour  as  one  to  whom  honour  is  due. 

To  all  this  he  responded  with  a  gratitude 
which  was  sincere;  but  his  deeper  gratitude 


A   MIRACLE  87 

was  for  the  Powers  by  whose  ordering  he 
had  been  born  neither  an  Englishman  nor 
a  Christian,  but  a  Hindu. 

Here,  as  in  America,  he  looked  about  him 
observingly  and  pondered  the  meaning  of 
what  he  saw.  But  he  understood  it  not,  and 
went  hither  and  thither  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 
In  his  Indian  home  he  had  studied  Western 
civilisation  from  the  books  which  tell  of  its 
mighty  works  and  its  religion;  and,  so  studied, 
it  had  seemed  to  him  an  intelligible  thing. 
But,  seen  with  the  naked  eye,  it  appeared 
incomprehensible,  nay,  incredible.  Its  big- 
ness oppressed  him,  its  variety  confused  him, 
its  restlessness  made  him  numb.  Values 
seemed  to  be  inverted,  perspectives  to  be  dis- 
torted, good  and  evil  to  be  transposed:  "in" 
meant  "out,"  and  Death  did  duty  for  Life. 
Chandrapdl  could  not  take  the  point  of  view, 
and  finally  concluded  there  was  no  point  of 
view  to  take.  He  could  not  frame  his  visions 
into  coherence,  and  therefore  judged  that  he 
was  looking  at  chaos.  Sometimes  he  would 
doubt  the  reality  of  what  he  saw,  and  would 


88  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

recollect  himself  and  seek  for  evidence  that 
he  was  awake.  "Can  such  things  be?"  he 
would  say  to  himself;  "for  this  people  has 
turned  all  things  upside  down.  Their  happi- 
ness is  misery,  their  wisdom  is  bewilderment, 
their  truth  is  self-deception,  their  speech  is 
a  disguise,  their  science  is  the  parent  of  error, 
their  life  is  a  process  of  suicide,  their  god  is 
the  worm  that  dieth  not  and  the  fire  that  is 
not  quenched.  What  is  believed  is  not  pro- 
fessed, and  what  is  professed  is  not  believed. 
In  yonder  place" — he  was  looking  at  London 
— "there  is  darkness  and  misery  enough  for 
seven  hells.  Verily  they  have  already  come 
to  judgment  and  been  condemned. 

So  thought  Chandrapal.  But  his  mistake, 
if  it  was  one,  offended  nobody;  for  he  held 
his  peace  about  these  things. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  folk  of  Dead- 
borough  were  started  from  their  wonted 
apathy  by  the  apparition  of  a  Strange  Man. 
They  saw  him  first  as  he  drove  from  the 
station  in  a  splendid  carriage-and-pair,  with 


A   MIRACLE  89 

a  coronet  on  its  panels.  Seated  in  the  carriage 
was  a  venerable  being  with  a  swarthy  counte- 
nance and  headgear  of  the  whitest — such  was 
the  brief  vision.  Other  carriages  followed 
in  due  course,  for  there  was  an  illustrious 
house-party  at  Deadborough  Hall — the  owner 
of  which  was  not  only  a  slayer  of  pheasants, 
but  a  reader  of  books  and  a  student  of  things. 
He  had  gathered  together  the  Bishop  of  the 
Diocese,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  two  eminent 
philosophers,  the  American  Ambassador,  a 
leading  historian,  and  a  Writer  on  the  Mystics. 
To  these  was  added — for  he  deserves  a 
sentence  to  himself — an  Orientalist  of  world- 
wide reputation.  All  were  gathered  for  the 
purpose  of  meeting  Chandrapal. 

By  the  charm  of  his  manners,  by  his 
urbanity,  by  his  brilliant  and  thought-provok- 
ing conversation,  the  Oriental  repaid  his  host 
a  hundred  times  over.  To  most  of  his  fellow- 
guests  he  played  the  part  of  teacher,  while 
seeming  to  act  that  of  disciple;  but  to  none 
was  his  manner  so  deferential  and  his  air 
of  attention  so  profound  as  to  the  great 


90  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

Orientalist.  And  yet  in  the  secret  heart  of 
Chandrapdl  this  was  the  man  for  whom  he 
felt  the  deepest  compassion.  He  found,  in- 
deed, that  the  great  man's  reputation  had  not 
belied  him;  he  was  versed  in  the  wisdom  of 
the  East  and  in  the  tongues  which  had  spoken 
it;  he  knew  the  path  to  the  Great  Peace  as 
well  as  the  sage  knew  it  himself;  but  when 
Chandrapdl  looked  into  his  restless  eyes  and 
heard  the  hard  tones  of  his  voice,  he  per- 
ceived that  no  soul  on  earth  was  further  from 
the  Great  Peace  than  this. 

With  the  two  philosophers  Chandrapal 
spent  many  hours  in  close  debate.  He  spoke 
to  them  of  the  Bhagavad  Gita  and  of  Spinoza. 
He  found  that  of  the  Bhagavad  Gita  they 
knew  little — and  they  cared  less.  Of  Spinoza 
they  knew  much  and  understood  nothing— 
thus  thought  he.  So  he  turned  to  other  topics 
and  conversed  fluently  on  the  matters  dearest 
to  their  hearts — namely,  their  own  works, 
with  which  he  was  well  acquainted.  They, 
on  their  part,  had  never  met  a  listener  more 
sympathetic,  a  critic  more  acute.  Chandra- 


A   MIRACLE  91 

pal  left  upon  them  the  impression  of  his 
immense  capacity  for  assimilating  the  pro- 
ducts of  Western  thought;  also  the  belief 
that  they  had  thoroughly  rifled  his  brains. 

Meanwhile  he  was  thinking  thus  within 
himself:  "These  men  are  keepers  of  shops, 
like  the  rest  of  their  nation.  Their  merchan- 
dise is  the  thoughts  of  God,  which  they  defile 
with  wordy  traffic,  understanding  them  not. 
They  have  no  reverence  for  their  masters; 
their  souls  are  poisoned  with  self;  therefore 
the  Light  is  not  in  them,  and  they  know 
not  the  good  from  the  evil.  The  word  of 
the  Truth  is  on  their  lips,  but  it  lives  not  in 
their  hearts.  Moreover,  they  are  robbers; 
and  even  as  their  fathers  stole  my  country 
so  they  would  capture  the  secrets  of  my  soul 
—that  they  may  sell  them  for  money  and 
increase  their  traffic.  But  to  none  such  shall 
the  treasure  be  given.  I  will  walk  with 
them  in  the  outer  courts;  but  the  innermost 
chamber  they  shall  not  so  much  as  see." 

With  the  Cabinet  Minister  Chandrapdl  had 
this  in  common — that  both  were  lawyers  and 


92  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

servants  of  the  Crown.  Thus  a  basis  of 
intercourse  was  established — were  it  only  in 
the  fact  that  each  man  understood  the  official 
reserve  of  the  other.  The  first  day  of  their 
acquaintance  was  passed  by  each  in  recon- 
noitring the  other's  position  and  deciding  on 
a  plan  of  campaign.  The  Minister  concluded 
that  there  were  three  burning  topics  which  it 
would  be  unwise  to  discuss  with  Chandrapdl. 
Chandrapal  perceived  what  these  topics  were, 
knew  the  Minister's  reasons  for  avoiding 
them,  and  reflected  with  some  satisfaction 
that  they  were  matters  on  which  he  also  had 
no  desire  to  talk.  His  real  object  was  to 
penetrate  the  Minister's  mind  in  quite  another 
direction,  and  he  saw  that  this  astute  diplo- 
matist had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
what  he  was  after.  This,  of  course,  gave 
the  tactical  advantage  to  the  Indian. 

Now  Chandrapal  was  more  subtle  than  all 
the  guests  in  Deadborough  Hall.  With  great 
adroitness  he  managed  to  introduce  the 
very  topics  on  which,  as  he  well  knew,  the 
Minister  had  resolved  not  to  express  himself; 


A   MIRACLE  93 

but  he  took  care  on  each  occasion  to  provide 
the  other  with  an  opportunity  for  talking 
about  something  else.  This  something  else 
had  been  carefully  chosen  by  Chandrapal,  and 
it  was  a  line  of  escape  which  led  by  very 
gradual  approaches  to  the  thing  he  wanted  to 
find  out.  The  Minister  had  won  a  great 
reputation  in  beating  the  diplomatists  of 
Europe  at  their  own  game;  but  he  had  never 
before  directly  encountered  the  subtlety  of  an 
Oriental  mind.  Stepping  aside  from  the 
dangerous  spots  to  which  the  other  was  con- 
tinually leading  him,  he  put  his  foot  on  each 
occasion  into  the  real  trap;  and  thus,  by  the 
end  of  the  third  day,  he  had  revealed  what  the 
Indian  valued  more  than  all  the  secrets  of  the 
British  Cabinet.  Meanwhile  the  Minister  had 
conceived  an  intense  dislike  to  Chandrapal, 
which  he  disguised  under  a  mask  he  had  long 
used  for  such  purposes;  at  the  same  time  he 
flattered  himself  on  the  ease  with  which  he 
outwitted  this  wily  man. 

Chandrapal,    on    his    side,    reflected    thus: 
"Behold  the  misery  of  them  that  know  not 


94  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  Truth.  This  man  flatters  the  people; 
but  in  his  heart  he  despises  them.  Those 
whom  he  leads  he  knows  to  be  blind,  and 
his  trade  is  to  persuade  them  that  they  can 
see.  The  Illusion  has  made  them  mad; 
none  sees  whither  he  is  going;  the  next  step 
may  plunge  them  all  into  the  pit;  they  live 
for  they  know  not  what.  All  this  is  known 
to  yonder  man;  and,  being  unenlightened, 
he  has  no  way  of  escape,  but  yields  to  his 
destiny,  which  is,  that  he  shall  be  the  bond- 
servant of  lies."  In  short,  the  discovery  which 
the  Oriental  believed  himself  to  have  made 
was  this — that  neither  the  Great  Man  before 
him,  nor  the  millions  whom  he  led,  had  the 
faintest  conception  of  the  Meaning  of  Life; 
and,  further,  that  the  Great  Man  was  aware 
of  his  ignorance  and  troubled  by  it,  whereas 
the  millions  knew  it  not  and  were  at  their  ease. 
With  the  Writer  on  Mystics  he  was  reserved 
to  the  point  of  coldness.  In  this  man's  pre- 
sence Chandrapal  felt  that  he  was  being 
regarded  as  an  "interesting  case"  for  analysis. 
So  he  wTapped  himself  in  a  mantle  impervious 


A   MIRACLE  95 

to  professional  scrutiny,  and  gave  answers 
which  could  not  be  worked  up  into  a  chapter 
for  any  book.  The  Writer  was  disappointed 
in  Chandrapal,  and  Chandrapal  had  no  satis- 
faction in  the  Writer.  "This  man,"  he 
thought,  "has  studied  the  Light  until  he  has 
become  blind.  He  would  speak  of  the  things 
which  belong  to  Silence.  He  is  the  most 
deeply  entangled  of  them  all." 

Fortunately  for  Chandrapal,  there  were 
children  in  the  house,  and  these  alone  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  the  path  to  his  heart.  There 
was  one  Little  Fellow  of  five  years  who  con- 
tinually haunted  the  drawing-room  when  he 
was  there,  hiding  behind  screens  or  the  backs 
of  arm-chairs,  and  staring  at  the  Strange  Man 
with  wide  eyes  and  finger  in  mouth.  One  day, 
when  he  was  reading,  the  Little  Fellow  crept 
up  to  his  chair  on  hands  and  knees  and  began 
industriously  rubbing  the  dark  wrist  of  the 
Indian  with  his  wetted  finger.  "It  dothn't 
come  off,"  said  the  Little  Fellow.  From  that 
moment  he  and  the  Strange  Man  became  the 
fastest  of  friends  and  were  seldom  far  apart. 


96  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

Except  for  this  companionship  it  may  be 
said  that  never  since  leaving  his  native  land 
was  the  spirit  of  Chandrapal  more  solitary  nor 
more  aloof  from  the  things  and  the  persons 
around  him.  Never  did  he  despair  so  utterly 
of  beholding  that  which  he  was  most  eager 
to  find.  Only  when  in  the  company  of  the 
Little  Fellow,  and  in  the  hours  reserved  for 
meditation,  was  he  able  to  shake  off  the  sense 
of  oppression  and  recover  the  balance  of  his 
soul.  At  these  times  he  would  quit  the  talkers 
and  go  forth  alone  into  unfrequented  places. 
Nowhere  else,  he  thought,  could  a  land  be 
found  more  inviting  than  this  to  those  moods 
of  inward  silence  and  content,  whence  the  soul 
may  pass,  at  a  single  step,  into  the  ineffable 
beatitude  of  the  Great  Peace.  Full,  now,  of 
the  sense  of  harmony  between  himself  and  his 
visible  environment,  he  would  penetrate  as  far 
as  he  could  into  the  forests  and  the  hills.  He 
would  take  his  seat  beside  the  brook;  he 
would  say  to  himself  in  his  own  tongue,  "This 
water  has  been  flowing  all  night  long,"  and  at 
the  thought  his  mind  would  sink  deep  into 


A  MIRACLE  97 

itself;  and  presently  the  trees,  the  rocks,  the 
fields,  the  skies,  nay,  his  own  body,  would 
seem  to  melt  into  the  movement  of  the  flow- 
ing stream,  and  the  Self  of  Chandrapdl, 
freed  from  all  entanglements  and  poised  at 
the  centre  of  Being,  would  gaze  on  the  River 
of  Eternal  Flux. 

One  day,  while  thus  engaged,  standing  on  a 
bridge  which  carried  a  by-road  over  the 
stream,  a  shock  passed  through  him:  the 
stillness  was  broken  as  by  thunder,  the  vision 
fled,  and  the  entanglements  fell  over  him 
like  a  gladiator's  net.  A  motor,  coming 
round  a  dangerous  bend,  had  just  missed 
him ;  and  he  stood  covered  with  dust.  Chan- 
drapal  saw  and  understood,  and  then,  closing 
his  eyes  and  making  a  mighty  effort,  shook 
the  entanglements  from  his  soul,  and  sank 
back  swiftly  upon  the  Centre  of  Poise. 

The  car  stopped,  and  a  white-haired  woman 
alighted.  A  moment  later  there  was  a  touch 
on  the  arm,  and  a  human  voice  was  calling  to 
him  from  the  world  of  shadows.  "I  beg  a 
thousand  pardons,"  said  Mrs.  Abel;  "the 

7 


98  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

driver  was  careless.  Thank  Heaven,  you 
are  unhurt;  but  the  thing  is  an  injury,  and 
you  are  a  stranger.  My  house  is  here;  come 
with  me,  and  you  shall  have  water." 

What  more  was  said  I  do  not  know.  But 
when  some  hours  later  Chandrapal  returned 
on  foot  to  the  Hall  he  walked  lightly,  for  the 
load  of  pity  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart. 
To  one  who  was  with  him  he  said:  "The 
Wisdom  of  the  Nazarene  still  lives  in  this 
land,  but  it  is  hidden  and  obscure,  and  those 
who  would  find  it  must  search  far  and  long, 
as  I  have  searched.  Why  are  the  Enlightened 
so  few;  for  the  Truth  is  simple  and  near  at 
hand  ?  The  light  is  here,  *  but  the  darkness 
comprehendeth  it  not.'  Is  not  that  so?  The 
men  in  yonder  house,  who  will  soon  be  talking, 
are  the  slaves  of  their  own  tongues;  but  this 
woman  with  the  voice  of  music  is  the  mistress 
of  her  speech.  They  are  of  the  darkness: 
she  of  the  light.  But  perhaps,"  he  added, 
"she  is  not  of  your  race." 

Thus  the  Thing  for  which  Chandrapdl  had 
never  ceased  to  watch  since  his  foot  touched 


A   MIRACLE  99 

Western  soil  was  first  revealed  to  him;  thus 
also  the  secret  of  his  own  heart,  which  he  had 
guarded  so  long  from  the  intrusion  of  the 
"wise,"  was  first  suffered  to  escape.  He  had 
lit  his  beacon  and  seen  the  answering  fire. 

Several  months  elapsed,  during  which  Chan- 
drapdl  continued  his  travels,  visiting  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  interviewing  German  Pro- 
fessors, and  seeing  more  and  more  of  the 
Great  Illusion  (for  so  he  deemed  it)  which  is 
called  "Progress"  in  the  West.  He  met 
reformers  everywhere,  and  studied  their 
schemes  for  amending  the  world;  he  heard 
debates  in  many  parliaments,  and  did  obei- 
sance to  several  kings;  he  visited  the  in- 
stitutions where  day  by  day  the  wounded 
are  brought  from  the  battle,  and  where 
medicaments  are  poured  into  the  running 
sores  of  Society;  he  went  to  churches,  and 
heard  every  conceivable  variety  of  Christian 
doctrine;  he  sat  in  the  lecture-halls  of  social- 
ists, secularists,  anarchists,  and  irreconcilables 
of  every  sort;  he  made  acquaintance  with 


100  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  inventors  of  new  religions;  he  saw  the 
Modern  Drama  in  London,  Paris,  Berlin, 
and  Vienna;  he  attended  political  meetings 
and  listened  to  great  orators;  he  was  taken 
to  reviews  and  beheld  the  marching  of  Armies 
and  the  manoeuvring  of  Fleets;  he  was 
shown  an  infinity  of  devices  for  making 
wheels  go  round,  and  was  told  of  coming 
inventions  that  would  turn  them  faster  still. 
All  these  and  many  more  such  things  passed 
in  vision  before  him;  but  nothing  stirred  his 
admiration,  nothing  provoked  his  envy,  noth- 
ing disturbed  his  fixed  belief  that  Western 
civilization  was  an  air-born  bubble  and  a 
consummation  not  to  be  desired. 

"The  disease  of  this  people  is  incurable," 
he  thought,  "because  they  are  ignorant  of  the 
Origin  of  Sorrow.  Hence  they  heal  their  woe 
at  one  end  and  augment  its  sources  at  the 
other.  But  as  for  me,  I  will  hold  my  peace; 
for  there  is  none  here,  no,  not  even  the  wisest, 
who  would  hear  or  understand.  Never  will 
the  Light  break  forth  upon  them  till  the  East 
has  again  conquered  the  West." 


A   MIRACLE 

II 

WHEN  all  these  things  had  been  accom- 
plished Chandrapal  was  again  in  Deadbor- 
ough — a  guest  at  the  Rectory.  It  was  Billy 
Rowe,  an  urchin  of  ten,  who  informed  me  of 
the  arrival.  Billy  had  just  been  let  out  of 
school,  and  was  in  the  act  of  picking  up  a 
stone  to  throw  at  Lina  Potts,  whom  he  bit- 
terly hated,  when  the  Rectory  carriage  drove 
past  the  village  green.  At  once  every  hand, 
including  Billy's,  went  promptly  to  the  corner 
of  its  owner's  mouth,  hoops  were  suspended 
in  mid-career,  and  half-sucked  lollipops,  in 
process  of  transference  from  big  sisters  to 
little  brothers  were  allowed  an  interval  for 
getting  dry.  The  carriage  passed;  stones, 

hoops,  and  lollipops  resumed  their  circulation, 

101 


102  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

and  by  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  news 
of  Chandrapal's  arrival  was  waiting  for  the 
returning  labourer  in  every  cottage  in  Dead- 
borough. 

That  night  I  repaired  to  the  Nag's  Head, 
for  I  knew  that  the  arrival  would  have  a 
favourable  effect  on  the  size  of  the  "house." 
I  am  not  addicted,  let  me  say,  to  Tom  Barter's 
vile  liquors;  but  I  have  some  fondness  for  the 
psychology  of  a  village  pub,  and  I  was  in 
hopes  that  the  conversation  in  this  instance 
would  be  instructive.  An  unusually  large 
company  was  assembled,  and  to  that  extent 
I  was  not  disappointed.  But  in  respect  of 
the  conversation  it  must  be  confessed  that 
I  drew  a  blank.  The  tongues  of  the  talkers 
seemed  to  be  paralysed  by  the  very  event 
which  I  had  hoped  would  set  them  all  wag- 
ging. It  was  evident  that  every  man  present 
had  come  in  the  hopes  that  his  neighbour 
would  have  something  to  say  about  Chand- 
rapdl,  and  thus  provide  an  opening  for  his 
own  eloquence.  But  nobody  gave  a  lead,  the 
whole  company  being  apparently  in  presence 


A   MIRACLE  103 

of  a  speech-defying  portent.  At  last  I  broke 
the  ice  by  an  allusion  to  the  arrival.  "Ah," 
said  one,  "Oh,"  said  another.  "Indeed," 
said  a  third.  'You  don't  say  so,"  said  a 
fourth.  At  length  one  venturesome  spirit 
remarked,  "I  hear  as  he's  a  great  man  in  his 
own  country."  "I  dare  say  he  is,"  replied 
the  village  butcher,  with  the  air  of  one  to 
whom  the  question  of  human  greatness  was 
a  matter  of  absolute  indifference.  That  was 
the  end.  Shortly  afterwards  I  left,  and  pres- 
ently overtook  Snarley  Bob,  who  had  pre- 
ceded me.  "Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lot  o' 
tongue-tied  lunatics?"  said  Snarley.  "What 
made  them  silent?"  I  asked.  "They'd  got 
too  much  to  say,"  answered  Snarley,  and  then 
added,  rather  mischievously,  "They  were 
only  waitin'  to  begin  till  you'd  gone.  If  you 
was  to  go  back  now,  you'd  hear  'em  barkin' 
like  a  pack  o'  hounds." 

Among  the  many  good  offices  for  which 
Snarley  had  to  thank  Mrs.  Abel,  not  the  least 
was  her  systematic  protection  of  him  from  the 


104  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

intrusions  of  the  curious.  Plenty  of  people 
had  heard  of  him,  and  there  were  not  wanting 
many  who  were  anxious  to  put  his  soul  under 
the  scalpel,  in  the  interests  of  Science.  Mrs. 
Abel  was  the  channel  through  which  they 
usually  attempted  to  act.  But  she  knew  very 
well  that  the  thing  was  futile,  not  to  say 
dangerous.  For  some  of  the  instincts  of  the 
wild  animal  had  survived  in  Snarley,  of  which 
perhaps  the  most  marked  was  his  refusal  to 
submit  to  the  scrutiny  of  human  eyes.  To 
study  him  was  almost  as  difficult  as  to  study 
the  tiger  in  the  jungle.  At  the  faintest  sound 
of  inquisitive  footsteps  he  would  retreat, 
hiding  himself  in  some  place,  or,  more 
frequently,  in  some  manner,  whither  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  follow;  and  if,  as  some- 
times happened,  his  pursuers  pressed  hard 
and  sought  to  drive  him  out  of  his  fastness,  he 
would  break  out  upon  them  in  a  way  for 
which  they  were  not  prepared,  and  give  them 
a  shock  which  effectually  forbade  all  further 
attempts.  Such  a  result  was  unprofitable  to 
Science  and  injurious  to  Snarley.  For  these 


A   MIRACLE  105 

reasons  Mrs.  Abel  had  come  to  a  definite 
conclusion  that  the  cause  of  Science  was  not 
to  be  advanced  by  introducing  its  votaries  to 
Snarley  Bob;  and  when  they  came  to  the 
Rectory,  as  they  sometimes  did,  she  abstained 
from  mentioning  his  name,  failed  to  answer 
when  questioned,  and  took  care,  so  far  as 
she  could,  that  the  old  man  should  be  left 
undisturbed. 

But  the  reasons  which  led  to  this  decision 
had  no  force  in  the  case  of  Chandrapal.  She 
was  certain  that  Chandrapal  would  not  treat 
Snarley  as  a  mere  abnormal  specimen  of 
human  nature,  a  corpus  vile  for  scientific 
investigation.  She  knew  that  the  two  men 
had  something,  nay,  much,  in  common;  and 
she  believed  that  the  ground  of  intercourse 
would  be  established  the  instant  that  Snarley 
heard  the  stranger's  voice. 

Nevertheless,  the  matter  was  difficult.  It 
was  well-nigh  impossible  to  determine  the 
conditions  under  which  Snarley  would  be  at 
his  best,  and,  whatever  arrangements  were 
made,  his  animal  shyness  might  spoil  them  all. 


106  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

To  take  him  by  surprise  was  known  to  be 
dangerous;  and  we  had  already  found  to 
our  cost  that  the  attempt  to  deceive  him 
by  the  pretence  of  an  accidental  meeting 
was  pretty  certain  to  end  in  disaster.  How 
Mrs.  Abel  succeeded  in  bringing  the  thing 
off  I  don't  know.  There  may  have  been 
bribery  and  corruption  (for  Snarley's  char- 
acter had  not  been  formed  from  the  fashion- 
books  of  any  known  order  of  mystics),  and, 
though  I  saw  nothing  to  suggest  this  method, 
I  know  nothing  to  exclude  it — as  a  work- 
ing hypothesis.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  the 
arrangement  was  made  that  on  a  certain 
Wednesday  evening  Snarley  was  to  come 
down  to  the  Rectory  and  attend  in  the  garden 
for  the  coming  of  Chandrapdl.  I  had  already 
learnt  to  regard  Mrs.  Abel  as  a  worker  of 
miracles  to  whom  few  things  were  impossible; 
but  this  conquest  of  Snarley's  reluctance 
to  be  interviewed,  and  in  a  manner  so  ex- 
ceptional, has  always  impressed  me  as  one 
of  her  greatest  achievements.  If  the  reader 
had  known  the  old  shepherd  only  in  his 


A   MIRACLE  107 

untransfigured  state — when,  in  his  own  phrase, 
he  was  "stuck  in  his  skin" — I  venture  to 
say  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  asking 
a  grisly  bear  to  afternoon  tea  in  his  drawing- 
room  as  of  inviting  Snarley  Bob  to  meet  an 
Indian  sage  in  a  rectory  garden.  But  the 
arrangement  was  made — whether  by  the  aid 
of  Beelzebub  or  the  attractions  of  British 
gold,  no  man  will  ever  know. 

Nothing  in  connection  with  Snarley  had 
ever  interested  me  so  much  as  the  possible 
outcome  of  this  strange  interview;  so  that, 
when  informed  of  what  was  going  to  happen, 
I  sent  a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Abel  asking  per- 
mission to  be  on  the  spot — not,  of  course,  as 
a  witness  of  the  interview  but  as  a  guest  in 
the  house.  The  reply  was  favourable,  and  on 
Tuesday  afternoon  I  was  at  Deadborough. 

I  had  some  talk  with  Chandrapdl,  and  I 
could  see  that  he  was  not  pleased  at  my 
coming.  He  asked  me  at  once  why  I  was 
there,  and,  on  receiving  a  not  very  ingenuous 
answer,  he  became  reserved  and  distant. 
Indeed,  his  whole  manner  reminded  me 


108  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

forcibly  of  the  bearing  of  Snarley  Bob  on 
the  occasion  of  our  ludicrous  attempt  on 
Quarry  Hill  to  introduce  him  to  the  poetry 
of  Keats.  I  had  come  prepared  to  ask  him  a 
question;  but  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the 
point  than  the  whole  fashion  of  the  man  was 
suddenly  changed.  His  face,  which  usually 
wore  an  expression  of  quiet  dignity,  seemed 
to  degenerate  into  a  mass  of  coarse  but 
powerful  features,  so  that,  had  I  seen  him 
thus  at  a  first  meeting,  I  should  have  thought 
at  once,  "This  man  is  a  sensualist  and  a 
ruffian !"  His  answers  were  distinctly  rude; 
he  said  the  question  was  foolish  (probably  it 
was) — that  people  had  been  pestering  him 
with  that  kind  of  thing  ever  since  he  left 
India;  in  short,  he  gave  me  to  understand 
that  he  regarded  me  as  a  nuisance.  I  had 
never  before  seen  in  him  any  approach  to  this 
manner;  indeed,  I  had  continually  marvelled 
at  his  patience  with  fools,  his  urbanity  with 
bores,  and  his  willingness  to  give  of  his  best 
to  those  who  had  nothing  to  give  in  return. 
As  the  evening  wore  on  he  seemed  to 


A   MIRACLE  109 

realise  what  he  had  done,  and  was  evidently 
troubled.  For  my  part,  I  had  decided  to 
leave  next  morning,  for  I  thought  that  my 
presence  in  the  house  was  disturbing  him, 
and  would  perhaps  spoil  the  chances  of  to- 
morrow's interview.  Of  this  I  had  breathed 
no  hint  to  anyone,  and  I  was  therefore  greatly 
surprised  when  he  said  to  me  after  dinner, 
"I  charge  you  to  remain  in  this  house.  There 
is  no  reason  for  going  away.  I  was  not  myself 
this  afternoon;  but  it  has  passed  and  will  not 
return.  Come  now,  let  us  go  out  into  the 
woods." 

Mrs.  Abel  came  with  us.  Her  object  in 
coming  was  to  guide  our  walk  in  some  direc- 
tion where  we  were  not  likely  to  encounter 
Snarley  Bob,  whose  haunts  she  knew,  and 
whom  it  was  not  desirable  that  we  should 
meet  before  the  appointed  time;  for  the 
nightingales  were  now  in  full  song,  and 
Snarley  was  certain  to  be  abroad.  We  there- 
fore took  a  path  which  led  in  an  opposite 
direction  to  that  in  which  his  cottage  lay. 

Chandrapdl  had  his  own  ways  of  feeling  and 


110  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

responding  to  the  influences  of  Nature — ways 
which  are  not  ours.  No  words  of  admiration 
escaped  him;  but,  on  entering  the  woods 
where  the  birds  were  singing  he  said,  "The 
sounds  are  harmonious  with  thought."  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  hint. 

Guided  by  the  singing  of  the  birds,  we 
turned  into  an  unfrequented  lane,  bordered 
by  elms.  The  evening  was  dull,  damp,  and 
windless,  and  the  air  lay  stagnant  between 
the  high  banks  of  the  lane.  We  walked  on 
in  complete  silence,  Chandrapal  a  few  yards 
in  front;  none  of  us  felt  any  desire  to  speak. 
Three  nightingales  were  singing  at  intervals: 
one  at  some  distance  in  the  woods  ahead  of 
us,  two  immediately  to  our  right.  Whether 
it  was  due  to  the  dampness  in  the  air  or  the 
song  of  the  birds,  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  felt 
the  "drowsy  numbness,"  of  which  the  poet 
speaks,  stealing  upon  me  irresistibly.  We 
presently  crossed  a  stile  into  the  fields;  and 
as  I  sat  for  a  moment  on  the  rail  the  drowsiness 
almost  overcame  me,  and  I  wondered  if  I 
could  escape  from  my  companions  and  find 


A   MIRACLE  111 

some  spot  whereon  to  lie  down  and  go  to 
sleep.  It  required  some  effort  to  proceed, 
and  I  could  see  that  Mrs.  Abel  was  affected 
in  a  similar  manner. 

By  crossing  the  stile  we  had  disturbed  one 
of  the  birds,  and  we  had  to  wait  some  minutes 
before  its  song  again  broke  out  much  further 
to  the  right.  For  some  reason  of  his  own 
Chandrapal  had  found  this  bird  the  best 
songster  of  the  three;  and,  wishing  to  get  as 
near  as  possible,  he  again  led  the  way  and 
gave  us  a  sign  to  follow.  We  cautiously 
skirted  the  hedge,  making  our  way  towards  a 
point  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  field  where 
there  was  a  gate,  and  beyond  this,  in  the 
next  field,  a  shed  of  some  sort  where  we  might 
stand  concealed. 

We  passed  the  gate,  turned  into  the  shed, 
and  were  immediately  confronted  by  Snarley 
Bob. 

Both  Mrs.  Abel  and  I  were  alarmed.  We 
knew  that  Snarley  Bob  when  disturbed  at 
such  a  moment  was  apt  to  be  exceedingly 
dangerous,  and  we  remembered  that  it  was 


112  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

precisely  such  a  disturbance  as  this  which  had 
brought  him  some  years  ago  within  measurable 
distance  of  committing  murder.  Nor  was  his 
demeanour  reassuring.  The  instant  he  saw 
us,  he  rose  from  the  shaft  of  the  cart  on  which 
he  had  been  seated,  smoking  his  pipe,  and 
took  a  dozen  rapid  steps  out  of  the  shed. 
Then  he  paused,  just  as  a  startled  horse  would 
do,  turned  half  round,  and  eyed  us  sidelong 
with  as  fierce  and  ugly  a  look  as  any  human 
face  could  wear.  Then  he  began  to  stride 
rapidly  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the  shed,  stamp- 
ing his  feet  whenever  he  turned,  and  keeping 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  swarthy  countenance  of 
Chandrapal,  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost 
ferocity. 

Chandrapal  retained  his  composure.  What- 
ever sudden  shock  he  may  have  felt  had 
passed  immediately,  and  he  was  now  standing 
in  an  attitude  of  deep  attention,  following  the 
movement  of  Snarley  Bob  and  meeting  his 
glance  without  once  lowering  his  eyes.  His 
calmness  was  infectious.  I  felt  that  he  was 
master  of  the  situation,  and  I  knew  that 


A   MIRACLE  US 

in  a  few  moments  Snarley's  paroxysm  would 
pass. 

It  did  pass;  but  in  a  manner  we  did  not 
expect.  Snarley,  on  his  side,  had  begun  to 
abate  his  rapid  march;  once  or  twice  he 
hesitated,  paused,  turned  around;  and  the 
worst  was  already  over  when  Chandrapal,  lift- 
ing his  thin  hands  above  his  head,  pronounced 
in  slow  succession  four  words  of  some  strange 
tongue.  What  they  meant  I  cannot  tell;  it 
is  not  likely  they  formed  any  coherent  sen- 
tence :  they  were  more  like  words  of  command 
addressed  by  an  officer  to  troops  on  parade, 
or  by  a  rider  to  his  horse.  Their  effect 
on  Snarley  was  instantaneous.  Turning  full 
round,  he  drew  himself  erect  and  faced  us  in 
an  attitude  of  much  dignity.  Every  trace  of 
his  brutal  expression  slowly  vanished;  his 
huge  features  contracted  to  the  human  size; 
the  rents  of  passion  softened  into  lines  of 
thought;  wisdom  and  benignity  sat  upon  his 
brows;  and  he  was  calm  and  still  as  the 
Sphinx  in  the  desert. 

Snarley  stood  with  his  hands  linked  behind 


114  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

his  back,  looking  straight  before  him  into  the 
distance;  and  Chandrapal,  without  changing 
his  attitude,  was  watching  him  as  before.  As 
the  two  men  stood  there  in  silence,  my  in- 
pression  was,  and  still  is,  that  they  were  in 
communication,  through  filaments  that  lie 
hidden,  like  electric  cables,  in  the  deeps  of 
consciousness.  Each  man  was  organically 
one  with  the  other;  the  division  between 
them  was  no  greater  than  between  two  cells 
in  a  single  brain;  the  understanding  was 
complete.  Thus  it  remained  for  some  sec- 
onds; then  the  silence  was  broken  by  speech, 
and  it  was  as  though  a  cloud  had  passed  over 
the  sun.  For,  with  the  first  word  spoken,  mis- 
understanding began;  and,  for  a  time  at  all 
events,  they  drifted  far  apart,  each  out  of  sight 
and  knowledge  of  the  other's  soul.  Had 
Snarley  begun  by  saying  something  incon- 
sequent or  irrelevant,  had  he  proposed  to 
build  three  tabernacles,  or  cried.  "Depart 
from  me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man,"  or  quoted 
the  words  of  some  inapplicable  Scripture  that 
was  being  fulfilled — there  might  have  been 


A   MIRACLE  115 

no  rupture.  But,  as  it  was,  he  spoke  to  the 
point,  and  instantly  the  tie  was  snapped. 

:'Them  words  you  spoke  just  now,"  he 
said,  and  paused.  Then,  completing  the  sen- 
tence—"them  words  was  full  o'  sense." 

I  could  see  that  Chandrapal  was  troubled. 
The  word  "sense"  woke  up  trains  of  con- 
sciousness quite  alien  to  the  intention  of  the 
speaker.  To  his  non-English  mind  this  usage 
of  the  word,  if  not  unknown,  was  at  least 
misleading. 

He  replied,  "Those  words  have  nothing  to 
do  with  "sense.'  Yet  you  seemed  to  under- 
stand them." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Snarley.  "But  I  felt  'em. 
They  burnt  me  like  fire.  Good  words  is  allus 
like  that.  There's  some  words  wi'  meanin'  in 
'em,  but  no  sense;  and  they're  fool's  words, 
most  on  'em.  You  understand  'em,  but  you 
don't  feel  'em*  But  when  they  comes  wi'  a 
bit  of  a  smack,  I  knows  they're  all  right. 
You  can  a'most  taste  'em  and  smell  'em  when 
they're  the  right  sort — just  like  a  drop  o' 
drink.  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  hear  Mrs.  Abel 


116  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

when  she  give  us  that  piece  o'  poetry.  That's 
the  sort  o'  words  folks  ought  to  use.  You 
can  feel  'em  in  your  bones.  Well,  as  I  was  a- 
sayin',  your  words  was  like  that.  They  come 
at  me  smack,  smack.  And  I  sez  to  myself  as 
soon  as  I  hears  'em,  *  That's  a  man  worth 
talkin'  to.'  " 

Chandrapal  had  listened  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  seeming  to  catch  Snarley's  drift.  The 
diction  must  have  puzzled  him,  but  I  doubt 
if  the  subtlest  skill  in  exposition  would  have 
availed  Snarley  half  so  well  in  restoring  the 
mutual  comprehension  which  had  been  tem- 
porarily broken.  Chandrapal  was  evidently 
relieved.  For  half  a  minute  there  was  silence, 
during  which  he  walked  to  and  fro,  deep  in 
thought.  Then  he  said,  "  Great  is  the  power 
of  words  when  the  speaker  is  wise.  But  the 
Truth  cannot  be  spoken" 

"Not  all  on  it,"  said  Snarley,  "only  bits 
here  and  there.  That's  what  the  bigness  o' 
things  teaches  you.  It's  my  opinion  as  there 
are  two  sorts  o'  words — shutters-in  and 
openers-out.  Them  words  o'  yours  was 


A   MIRACLE  117 

openers-out;  but  most  as  you  hears  are 
shutters-in.  It's  like  puttin'  a  thing  in  a  box. 
You  shuts  the  lid,  and  then  all  you  sees  is  the 
box.  But  when  things  gets  beyond  a  certain 
bigness  you  can't  shut  'em  in — not  unless  you 
first  chops  'em  up,  and  that  spoils  'em. 

"Now,  there's  Shoemaker  Hankin — a  man 
as  could  talk  the  hind-leg  off  a  'oss.  He  goes 
at  it  like  a  hammer,  and  thinks  as  he's  openin' 
things  out;  but  all  the  time  he's  shuttin'  on 
'em  in  and  nailin'  on  'em  up  in  their  coffins. 
One  day  he  begins  talkin'  about  'Life,'  and 
sez  as  how  he  can  explain  it  in  half  a  shake. 
*  You'll  have  to  kill  it  first,  Tom,'  I  sez,  'or 
it'll  kick  the  bottom  out  o'  your  little  box.' 
'I'm  going  to  hannilize  it,'  he  sez.  'That 
means  you're  goin'  to  chop  it  up,'  I  sez,  'so 
that  it's  bound  to  be  dead  before  we  gets 
hold  on  it.  All  right,  Tom,  fire  away!  Tell 
us  all  about  dead  Life.' 

"Well,  that's  allus  the  way  wi'  these  talkin' 
chaps.  There  was  that  Professor  as  comes 
tellin'  me  what  space  were — I  told  that 
gentleman"  (pointing  to  me)  "all  about  him. 


118  MAD   SHEPHERDS 

Why,  you  might  as  well  try  to  cut  runnin' 
water  wi'  a  knife.  Talkin'  people  like  him 
are  never  satisfied  till  they've  trampled  every- 
thing into  a  muck — same  as  the  sheep  tramples 
the  ground  when  you  puts  'em  in  a  pen.  They 
seems  to  think  as  that's  what  things  are  for  I 
They  all  wants  to  do  the  talkin'  themselves. 
But  doesn't  it  stand  to  sense  that  as  long  as 
you're  talkin'  about  things  you  can't  hear 
what  things  are  sayin'  to  you  ? 

"When  did  I  learn  all  that?  Why,  you 
don't  learn  them  things.  You  just  finds  'em. 
when  you're  alone  among  the  hills  and  the 
bigness  o'  things  comes  over  you.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  the  stars?  Well,  then, 
you'll  understand. 

"All  the  same,  I  were  once  a  talkin'  man 
myself;  ay,  and  it  were  then  as  I  got  the 
first  lesson  in  leavin'  things  alone.  It 
happened  one  day  when  I  were  a  Methody 
— long  before  I  knew  anything  about  the 
stars.  I'd  been  what  they  call  'converted'; 
and  one  day  I  were  prayin'  powerful  at  a 
meetin',  and  we  was  all  excited,  and  shoutin' 


A   MIRACLE  119 

as  we  wouldn't  go  home  till  the  answer  had 
come.  Well,  it  did  come — at  least  it  come  to 
me.  I  were  standin'  up  shoutin*  wi'  the  rest, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  I  kind  o'  heard  somebody 
whisperin'  in  my  ear.  'The  answer's  cominY 
I  sez;  'I'm  gettin'  it.'  So  they  all  gets  quiet, 
waitin'  for  me  to  give  the  answer.  I  suppose 
they  expected  me  to  say  as  a  new  heart  had 
been  given  to  somebody  we'd  been  prayin' 
for.  But  instead  o'  that  I  shouts  out  at  the 
top  o'  my  voice — though  I  can't  tell  what 
made  me  do  it — 'Shut  up,  all  on  you!  Shut 
up,  Henry  Blain!  Shut  up,  John  Scarsbrick! 
Shut  up,  Robert  Dellanow — I'm  tired  o'  the 
lot  on  your  That's  what  made  me  give  up 
bein'  a  Methody.  I  began  to  see  from  that 
day  that  when  things  begins  to  open  out 
you've  got  to  shut  up.1' 

"The  voices  of  the  wrorld  are  many;  and  the 
speech  of  man  is  only  one,"  said  Chandrapdl. 

"You're  right,"  said  Snarley,  "but  I'm 
not  sure  as  you  ought  to  call  'em  voices. 
Most  on  'em's  more  like  faces  nor  voices. 
It's  true  there's  the  thunder  and  the  wind — 


120  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

'specially  when  it's  blowin'  among  the  trees. 
And  then  there's  the  animals  and  the  birds." 

"It  is  said  in  the  East  that  once  there  were 
men  who  understood  the  language  of  birds." 

"No,  no,"  said  Snarley,  "there's  no  under- 
standin'  them  things.  But  there's  one  bird, 
and  that's  the  nightingale,  as  makes  me  kind 
o'  remember  as  I  understood  'em  once.  And 
there's  no  doubt  they  understand  one  another; 
and  there's  some  sorts  of  animals  as  under- 
stands other  sorts — but  not  all.  You  can 
take  my  word  for  it!" 

The  light  had  failed,  and  the  song  of  the 
birds,  driven  to  a  distance  by  our  voices, 
seemed  to  quicken  the  darkness  into  life. 
'Darkling,  we  listened' — how  long  I  know 
not,  for  the  subliminal  world  was  awake,  and 
the  measure  of  time  was  lost.  Snarley  was  the 
first  to  speak,  taking  up  his  parable  from 
the  very  point  where  he  had  left  it,  as  though 
he  were  unconscious  that  a  long  interval  had 
elapsed.  He  spoke  to  Chandrapai. 

"I  can  see  as  you're  a  rememberin'  sort  o' 


A  MIRACLE  121 

gentleman,'*  he  said.  "If  you  weren't,  you 
wouldn't  ha'  come  here  listenin'  to  the  birds. 
The  animals  remember  a  lot  o'  things  as  we've 
forgotten.  I  dare  say  you  know  it  as  well  as 
I  do.  Now,  there's  the  nightingale — that's 
the  bird  for  recollectin'  and  makin'  you  recol- 
lect; and  you  might  say  dogs  and  'osses  too. 
You  can  see  the  memory  in  the  dog's  eyes  and 
in  the  'oss's  face.  But  you  can  hear  it  in  the 
bird's  voice — and  hearin'  and  smellin'  is  better 
nor  seein'  when  it  comes  to  a  matter  o'  re- 
memberin.' 

"Yes,  and  it's  my  opinion  as  animals,  takin' 
'em  all  round,  are  wiser  nor  men — that  is, 
they've  got  more  sense.  You  let  your  line 
out  far  enough,  and  I  tell  you  there's  some 
animals  as  can  make  you  find  a  lot  o'  things 
as  you've  forgotten.  That's  what  the  bird 
does.  When  I  listens,  I  seems  to  be  re- 
memberin'  all  sorts  o'  things,  only  I  can't 
tell  nobody  what  they  are. 

*Yes,  but  you  ought  to  ha'  been  here  that 
night  when  Mrs.  Abel  give  that  piece!  Why, 
bless  you,  she'd  got  the  nightingale  to  a  T, 


128  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

especially  the  rememberin'.  Eh,  my  word, 
but  it  were  a  staggerer!  I  wish  you'd  been 
there — a  rememberin'  gentleman  like  you! 
You  get  her  to  give  you  that  piece  when 
you  goes  home,  and  it'll  make  you  reel  your 
line  out  to  the  very  end." 

Some  of  those  allusions,  I  imagine,  were 
lost  on  Chandrapdl.  But  once  more  he 
showed  that  he  caught  the  "sense." 

"In  my  country,"  he  said,  "religion  forbids 
us  to  take  the  lives  of  animals." 

"That's  a  good  sort  o'  religion,"  said 
Snarley.  "There's  some  sense  in  that!  Them 
as  holds  with  it  must  ha'  let  their  line  out 
pretty  far.  Now,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me 
to  hear  as  folks  in  your  country  are  good 
at  rememberin'  things  as  other  folks  have 
forgotten." 

'Yes,  some  of  us  think  we  can  remember 
many  things."  And,  after  a  pause,  "I 
thought  just  now  that  I  remembered  you." 

"And  me  you!"  said  Snarley,  "blessed  if  I 
didn't.  The  minute  you  said  them  funny 
words,  danged  if  I  didn't  feel  as  though  I'd 


A   MIRACLE  123 

knowed  you  all  my  life!  It  was  just  like  when 
I'm  listenin'  to  the  bird — all  sorts  o'  things 
comes  tumblin'  back.  Same  with  them  words 
o'  yours.  It  seemed  as  though  somebody  as  I 
knowed  were  a-callin'  of  me.  I  must  ha' 
travelled  millions  o'  miles,  same  as  when  you 
lets  your  line  out  to  the  stars.  And  all  the 
time  I  were  sure  that  I  knowed  the  voice, 
though  I  couldn't  understand  the  meanin'.  I 
tell  you,  it  were  just  like  listenin'  to  the  bird." 
Chandrapdl  now  turned  and  said  something 
to  Mrs.  Abel.  She  promptly  slipped  out  of 
the  shed,  giving  me  a  sign  to  follow.  Chand- 
rapdl  and  Snarley  were  left  to  themselves. 

Late  at  night  Chandrapdl  returned  to  the 
Rectory.  He  was  more  than  usually  silent 
and  absorbed.  Of  what  had  passed  between 
him  and  Snarley  he  said  not  a  word;  but,  on 
bidding  us  good-night,  he  remarked  to  Mrs. 
Abel,  "The  cycle  of  existence  returns  upon 
itself."  And  Snarley,  on  his  part,  never  spoke 
of  the  occurrence  to  any  living  soul.  'The 
rest  is  silence." 


AT  the  age  of  fifty  or  thereabouts  Shepherd 
Toller  went  mad.  After  due  process  he  was 
handed  over  to  the  authorities  and  graduated 
as  a  pauper  lunatic.  His  madness  was  the 
outcome  of  solicitude,  and  it  was  not  surprising 
that,  after  a  year  amid  the  jovial  company  of 
the  asylum,  Toller  began  to  improve.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  year  he  was  declared  to  be 
cured,  and  discharged,  much  to  his  regret. 

His  first  act  on  liberation  was  to  recover 
his  old  dog,  which  had  been  left  in  charge  of  a 
friend.  Desiring  to  start  life  again  where  his 
former  insanity  would  be  unknown,  he  made 
his  way  to .  Deadborough,  the  village  of  his 
birth.  Arrived  there,  after  a  forty  miles'  walk, 

124 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  125 

he  refreshed  himself  with  a  glass  of  beer  and  a 
penn'orth  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  proceeded 
at  once  to  Farmer  Ferryman  in  quest  of  work. 
The  farmer,  who  was,  as  usual,  in  want  of 
labour,  sent  him  to  Snarley  Bob  to  "put  the 
measure  on  him."  Snarley's  report  was  favour- 
able. "He  seemed  a  bit  queer,  no  doubt,  and 
kept  laughin'  at  nothin';  but  I've  knowed 
lots  o'  queer  people  as  had  more  sense  than 
them  as  wasn't  queer,  and  there's  no  denyin' 
as  he's  knowledgeable  in  sheep."  The  result 
was  that  Toller  was  forthwith  appointed  as 
an  understudy  to  Snarley  Bob. 

Bob's  estimate  of  the  new-comer  rose 
steadily  day  by  day.  "He  had  a  wonderful 
eye  for  points."  "As  good  a  sheep-doctor 
as  ever  lived."  "Wanted  a  bit  of  watchin', 
it  was  true,  but  had  a  head  on  his  shoulders 
for  all  that."  "  Knows  how  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut."  "Was  backward  in  breedin',  but 
not  for  want  o'  sense — hadn't  caught  him 
young  enough."  "Could  ha'  taught  him 
anything,  if  he'd  come  twenty-five  years 
back."  In  due  course,  therefore,  Toller  was 


126  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

entrusted  with  great  responsibilities.  He  it 
was  who,  under  Snarley's  direction,  presided 
over  the  generation,  birth,  and  early  upbring- 
ing of  the  thrice-renowned  "Thunderbolt." 

So  it  went  on  for  three  years.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  Toller  had  an  accident.  He  fell 
through  the  aperture  of  a  feeding-loft,  and  his 
spinal  column  received  an  ugly  shock.  Symp- 
toms of  his  old  malady  began  to  return.  He 
began  to  get  things  "terrible  mixed  up,  and 
to  play  tricks  which  violated  both  the  letter 
and  the  spirit  of  Snarley's  notches. 

One  of  the  breeding  points  in  Snarley's 
system  was  connected  with  the  length  of  the 
lambs'  ears.  Short  ears  in  the  new-born 
lamb  were  prophetic  of  desirable  points  which 
would  duly  appear  when  the  creature  became 
a  sheep;  long  ears,  on  the  other  hand,  in- 
dicated that  the  cross  had  failed.  A  crucial 
experiment  on  these  lines  was  being  con- 
ducted by  aid  of  a  ram  which  had  been 
specially  imported  from  Spain,  and  the  whole 
thing  had  been  left  to  Toller's  supervision. 
The  result  was  a  complete  failure.  On  the 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  127 

critical  day,  when  Snarley  returned  from  his 
obstetric  duties,  his  wife  saw  gloom  and 
disappointment  on  his  countenance.  "Well, 
have  them  lambs  come  right?"  "Lambs, 
did  you  say?  They're  not  lambs.  They're 
young  jackasses.  It's  summat  as  Shepherd 
Toller's  been  up  to.  You'll  never  make 
me  believe  as  the  Spanish  ram  got  any  one 
on  'em — no,  not  if  you  was  to  take  your 
dyin'  oath.  Blessed  if  I  know  where  he 
found  a  father  for  'em.  It's  not  one  o'  our 
rams,  I'll  swear.  You  mark  my  word,  missis, 
Shepherd  Toller's  goin'  out  of  his  mind  again. 
I've  seen  it  comin'  on  for  months.  Only 
last  Tuesday  he  sez  to  me,  *  Snarley,  I'm 
gettin'  cloudy  on  the  top." 

Shortly  after  this  Toller  disappeared  and, 
though  the  search  was  diligent,  he  could  not 
be  found.  "He's  not  gone  far,"  said  Snarley. 
"Leastways  he's  sure  to  come  back.  Mad- 
men allus  comes  back."  And  within  a  few 
months  an  incident  happened  which  enabled 
Snarley  to  verify  his  theory.  It  came  about 
in  this  wise. 


128  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

A  party  of  great  folk  from  the  Hall  had 
gone  up  into  the  hills  for  a  picnic.  They 
had  chosen  their  camp  near  the  head  of  a 
long  upland  valley,  where  the  ground  fell 
suddenly  into  a  deep  gorge  pierced  by  a  tor- 
rent. A  fire  of  sticks  had  been  lit  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  precipice,  and  a  kettle,  made  of 
some  shining  metal,  had  been  hung  over  the 
flames.  The  party  were  standing  by,  waiting 
for  the  water  to  boil,  when  suddenly,  crash! — a 
sprinkle  of  scalding  water  in  your  face — and 
— where's  the  kettle?  An  invisible  force, 
falling  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  had  smitten 
the  kettle  and  hurled  it  into  space.  The 
ladies  screamed;  the  Captain  swore;  the 
Clergyman  cried,  "Good  Gracious!"  the 
Undergraduate  said,  "Jerusalem!"  the  Wit 
added,  "And  Madagascar!"  But  what  was 
said  matters  not,  for  the  Recording  Angel 
had  dropped  his  pen.  The  whole  party  stood 
amazed,  unable  to  place  the  occurrence  in 
any  sort  of  intelligible  context,  and  with 
looks  that  seemed  to  say,  "The  reign  of 
Chaos  has  returned,  and  the  Inexpressible 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  129 

become  a  fact!"  Some  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  gorge  and  saw  below  a  mass  of  buckled 
tin,  irrecoverable,  and  worthless.  Some  looked 
about  on  the  hillside,  but  looked  on  nothing 
to  the  point.  Some  stood  by  the  spot  where 
the  kettle  had  hung,  and  argued  without 
premisses.  Some  searched  for  the  missile, 
some  for  the  man;  but  neither  was  found. 
The  whole  thing  was  an  absolute  mystery.  The 
party  had  lost  their  tea,  and  gained  a  subject 
for  conversation  at  dinner.  That  was  all. 

That  night  Snarley,  in  the  tap-room  of  the 
Nag's  Head,  heard  the  story  from  the  groom 
who  had  lit  the  fire,  hung  the  kettle,  and 
seen  it  fly  into  space.  Snarley  said  nothing, 
quickly  finished  his  glass,  and  went  home. 
"Missis,"  he  said,  "get  my  breakfast  at  three 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  Shepherd  Toller's 
come  back.  And  mind  you  hold  your  tongue." 

By  five  o'clock  next  morning  Snarley  had 
reached  the  scene  of  the  picnic.  He  gazed 
about  him  in  all  directions:  nothing  was 
stirring  but  the  peewits.  Then  he  climbed 
down  the  gorge  with  some  difficulty,  found 


130  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  kettle,  and  examined  its  riven  side. 
Climbing  back,  he  went  some  distance  further 
up  the  valley,  ascended  a  little  knoll,  took  out 
his  whistle,  and  blew  a  peculiar  blast,  tremu- 
lous and  piercing.  No  response.  Snarley 
blew  again,  and  again.  At  the  fourth  attempt 
the  distant  barking  of  a  dog  was  heard,  and  a 
minute  later  the  signal  was  answered  by  the 
counterpart  to  Snarley's  blast.  Presently  the 
form  of  a  big  man,  followed  by  a  yelping  dog, 
appeared  on  the  skyline  above.  Shepherd 
Toller  was  found. 

During  the  week  which  followed  these 
events,  various  members  of  the  picnic-party 
had  begun  to  recollect  things  they  had  pre- 
viously forgotten,  and  discoveries  were  made, 
ex  post  facto,  which  warranted  the  submission 
of  the  case  to  the  Society  for  the  Investigation 
of  Mysterious  Phenomena.  Lady  Lottie  Pas- 
singham  had  been  of  the  party,  and  she  it 
was  who  drew  up  the  Report  which  was  so 
much  discussed  a  few  years  ago.  In  her  own 
evidence  Lady  Lottie,  whose  figure  was  none 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  131 

too  slim,  averred  that,  as  she  climbed  the  hill 
to  the  place  of  rendezvous,  she  had  been  dis- 
tinctly conscious  of  something  pulling  her 
back.  She  had  attached  no  importance  to 
this  at  the  time,  though  she  had  remarked  to 
Miss  Gledhow  that  she  wished  she  hadn't 
come.  The  time  at  which  the  kettle  flew  was 
4.27  p.m. ;  at  4.25  Lady  Lottie,  had  a  sensation 
as  though  a  cold  hand  were  stroking  her 
left  cheek,  the  separate  fingers  being  clearly 
distinguishable.  Miss  Gledhow  had  experi- 
enced a  feeling  all  afternoon  that  she  was 
being  watched  and  criticised — a  feeling  which 
she  could  only  compare  to  that  of  a  person 
who  is  having  his  photograph  taken.  Captain 
Sorley's  cigarettes  kept  going  out  in  the  most 
unaccountable  manner;  and  in  this  connection 
he  would  mention  that  more  than  once,  and 
especially  a  few  minutes  after  the  main 
occurrence,  he  could  not  help  fancying  that 
someone  was  breathing  in  his  face.  The 
Rev.  E.  F.  Stark-Potter  had  heard,  several 
times,  a  sound  like  "Woe,  woe,"  which  he 
attributed  at  first  to  some  ploughman  calling 


132  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

to  his  horses;  subsequent  inquiry  had  proved, 
however,  that,  on  the  day  in  question,  no 
ploughing  was  being  done  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. All  the  witnesses  concurred  in  the 
statement  that  they  were  vividly  conscious 
of  something  wrong,  the  most  emphatic  in 
this  respect  being  the  Undergraduate,  who 
had  made  no  secret  of  his  feeling  at  the  time 
by  assuring  several  members  of  the  party 
that  he  felt  absolutely  "rotten."  Further, 
the  Report  stated,  the  scene  had  been  iden- 
tified with  the  spot  where  a  young  woman 
committed  suicide  in  1834  by  casting  herself 
down  the  precipice.  The  battered  kettle  wras 
also  recovered  and  sent  in  a  registered  parcel 
for  examination  by  the  experts  of  the  Society. 

After  the  mature  deliberation  due  to  the 
distinguished  names  at  the  end  of  the  Report, 
the  Society  decided  that  the  evidence  was  non- 
veridical,  and  refused  to  print  the  document 
in  their  Proceedings. 

Snarley  Bob,  who  knew  what  was  going  on, 
had  his  reasons  for  welcoming  this  develop- 
ment. He  concocted  various  legends  of  his 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  133 

own  weird  experiences  at  the  valley-head,  and 
these,  as  coming  from  him,  had  considerable 
weight.  They  were  communicated  in  the 
first  instance  to  the  groom.  By  him  they 
were  conveyed  to  the  coachman;  by  him,  to 
the  coachman's  wife;  whence  they  were  not 
long  in  finding  their  way,  by  the  usual 
channels,  to  headquarters.  Here  the  contribu- 
tions of  Snarley  were  combined  by  various 
hands  into  an  artistic  whole  with  the  original 
occurrence,  which,  in  this  new  context,  at  once 
quitted  the  low  ground  of  History  and  began 
a  free  development  of  its  own  in  the  realms  of 
the  Ideal.  By  the  time  it  reached  the  Press 
it  had  become  a  fiction  far  more  imposing 
than  any  fact,  and  far  more  worthy  of  belief. 
Things  that  never  happened  filled  the  fore- 
ground, and  the  thing  that  did  happen  had 
fallen  so  far  into  the  background  as  to  be 
almost  invisible.  The  incident  of  the  kettle 
had  exfoliated  into  a  whole  sequence  of 
imposing  mysteries,  becoming  in  the  process 
a  mere  germ  or  point  of  departure  of  no  more 
significance  in  itself  than  are  the  details  in 


134  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

Saxo  Grammaticus  to  a  first-class  performance 
of  Hamlet.  Thus  transfigured,  the  story  was 
indeed  a  drama  rather  than  a  narrative;  and 
those  who  remember  reading  it  in  that  form 
will  hardly  believe  that  it  had  its  origin  in  the 
humble  facts  which  these  pages  relate.  The 
excitement  it  caused  lasted  for  some  weeks, 
and  it  was  almost  a  public  disappointment 
when  the  Society  for  the  Investigation  of 
Mysterious  Phenomena  blew  a  cold  blast 
upon  the  whole  thing. 

When  Snarley  Bob  met  Shepherd  Toller  at 
Valley  Head,  he  found  him  accoutred  in  a 
manner  which  verified  his  private  theory 
as  to  the  levitation  of  the  kettle.  Coiled 
round  Toller's  left  arm  were  three  slings,  made 
from  strips  of  raw  oxhide,  with  pouches,  large 
and  small,  for  hurling  stones  of  various  size. 
Slung  over  his  back  was  a  big  bag,  also  of 
leather,  which  contained  his  ammunition — 
smooth  pebbles  gathered  from  the  torrent  bed, 
the  largest  being  the  size  of  a  man's  fist. 
Strapped  round  his  waist  was  a  flint  axe,  the 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  135 

head  being  a  beautiful  celt,  which  Toller  had 
discovered  long  ago  on  Clun  Downs,  and 
skilfully  fixed  in  a  handle  bound  with  thongs. 
In  the  days  of  Toller's  first  madness,  it  had 
been  his  habit  to  wander  over  Clun  Downs, 
equipped  in  this  manner,  He  had  lived  in 
some  fastness  of  his  own  devising,  and  supplied 
his  larder  by  the  occasional  slaughter  of  a 
stolen  sheep,  whose  skull  he  would  split  with 
a  blow  from  the  flint  axe.  The  slings  were 
rather  for  amusement  than  hunting,  though 
his  markmanship  was  excellent,  and  he  was 
said  to  be  able  at  any  time  to  bring  down  a 
rabbit,  or  even  a  bird.  All  day  long  he 
would  wander  in  unfrequented  uplands,  sling- 
ing stones  at  every  object  that  tempted  his  eye, 
and  roaring  and  dancing  with  delight  whenever 
he  hit  the  mark.  He  was  inoffensive  enough 
and  had  never  been  known  to  deliberately 
aim  at  a  human  being,  though  more  than  one 
shooting  party  had  been  considerably  alarmed 
by  the  crash  of  Toller's  stones  among  the 
branches,  or  by  his  long-range  sniping  of  the 
white-clothed  luncheon-table.  On  one  occa- 


186  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

sion  Toller  had  landed  a  huge  pebble,  the  size 
of  an  eight-pounder  shot,  into  the  very  bull's- 
eye  of  the  feast — to  wit,  a  basket  containing 
six  bottles  of  Heidsieck's  Special  Reserve.  It 
was  this  performance  which  led  Sir  George  to 
report  the  case  to  the  authorities  and  insist 
on  Toller  being  put  under  restraint. 

By  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Toller 
disappeared  from  the  Ferryman  sheepfolds  he 
had  completed  the  long  walk  to  his  former 
haunts,  and  recovered  his  weapons  from  under 
the  cairn  where  he  had  carefully  hidden  them 
six  years  before.  The  axe,  of  course,  was 
uninjured;  but  the  slings  were  rotten.  As 
soon  as  it  was  dark,  therefore,  Toller  stole 
down  to  the  pastures,  captured  a  steer, 
brained  it  with  the  flint  axe,  stripped  off  the 
skin,  made  a  fire,  roasted  a  piece  of  the 
warm  flesh,  covered  his  tracks,  and  before  the 
sun  was  up  had  made  twenty  miles  of  the 
return  journey,  with  half  a  dozen  fine  new 
slings  concealed  beneath  his  coat.  He  arrived 
at  Deadborough  at  nightfall  the  day  but  one 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  0'  CLUN  DOWNS  137 

following,  having  taken  a  circuitous  route  far 
from  the  highroad.  He  at  once  made  his 
way  into  the  hills. 

Beyond  the  furthest  outposts  of  the  Ferry- 
man farm  lie  extensive  wolds  rising  rapidly 
into  desolate  regions  where  sheep  can  scarcely 
find  pasture.  In  this  region  Toller  concealed 
himself.  About  two  miles  beyond  the  old 
quarry,  on  a  slaty  hillside,  he  found  a  deep 
pit,  which  had  probably  been  used  as  a  water- 
hole  in  prehistoric  times;  and  here  he  built 
himself  a  hut.  He  made  the  walls  out  of  the 
stones  of  a  ruined  sheep-fold;  he  roofed 
them  with  a  sheet  of  corrugated  iron,  stolen 
from  the  outbuildings  of  a  neighbouring 
farm,  and  covered  the  iron  with  sods;  he 
built  a  fire-place  with  a  flue,  but  no  chimney; 
he  caused  water  from  a  spring  to  flow  into  a 
hollow  beside  the  door.  Then  he  collected 
slate,  loose  stones,  and  earth;  and,  by  heaping 
these  against  the  walls  of  the  hut,  he  gave  the 
whole  structure  the  appearance  of  a  mound 
of  rubbish.  Human  eyes  rarely  came  within 
sight  of  the  spot;  but  even  a  keen  observer 


138  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

of  casual  objects  would  not  have  suspected 
that  the  mound  represented  any  sort  of  human 
dwelling.  It  was  a  masterpiece  of  protective 
imitation,  an  exact  replica  of  Toller's  previous 
abode  on  Clun  Downs.  His  fire  burned 
only  by  night. 

The  furnishing  of  this  simple  establishment 
consisted  of  a  feather  bed,  which  rested  on 
slabs  of  slate  supported  by  stones, — whence 
obtained  was  never  known,  but  undoubtedly 
stolen.  The  coverlet  was  three  sheepskins 
sewn  together,  the  pillow  also  a  sheepskin, 
coiled  round  a  cylinder  of  elastic  twigs.  The 
table  was  a  deal  box,  once  the  property  of 
Messrs.  Tate,  the  famous  refiners  of  sugar. 
The  chair  was  a  duplicate  of  the  table.  The 
implements  were  all  of  flint,  neatly  bound  in 
their  handles  with  strips  of  hide.  There  was 
the  axe  for  slaughter,  a  dagger  for  cutting 
meat,  a  hammer  for  breaking  bones,  a  saw 
and  scrapers  of  various  size — the  plunder  of 
some  barrow  on  Clun  Downs.  Under  the 
slates  of  the  bed  lay  a  collection  of  slings. 

In  this  place  Toller  lived  undiscovered  for 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  0'  CLUN  DOWNS  139 

several  months,  issuing  thence  as  occasion 
required  in  quest  of  food.  This  he  obtained 
by  night  forays  upon  distant  farms,  bringing 
back  mutton  or  beef,  lamb  or  sucking  pig,  a 
turkey,  a  goose,  a  couple  of  chickens,  accord- 
ing to  the  changes  of  his  appetite  or  the 
seasonableness  of  the  dish.  Fruit,  vegetables, 
and  potatoes  were  obtained  in  the  same 
manner.  In  addition,  all  the  game  of  the 
hills  was  at  his  mercy,  and  he  had  fish  from 
the  stream.  It  was  characteristic  of  Toller's 
cunning  that  his  plunder  was  all  obtained 
from  afar,  and  seldom  twice  from  the  same 
place.  He  would  go  ten  miles  to  the  north 
to  steal  a  lamb;  next  time,  as  far  to  the 
south  to  steal  a  goose.  The  plundered  area 
lay  along  the  circumference  of  great  circles, 
with  radii  of  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  miles,  of 
which  his  abode  was  the  centre.  This  put 
pursuers  off  the  track,  and  caused  them  to 
look  for  him  everywhere  but  where  he  was. 
The  police  were  convinced,  for  example,  that 
he  was  hiding  in  Clun  Downs.  The  steer  he 
had  slaughtered  on  his  first  return  had  been 


140  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

discovered,  as  Toller  intended  it  to  be;  and, 
in  order  to  keep  up  the  fiction  of  his  presence 
in  that  neighbourhood,  he  repeated  his  ex- 
ploit a  month  later,  and  slaughtered  a  second 
steer  in  the  very  pasture  where  he  had  killed 
the  first. 

Nor  was  his  favourite  amusement  denied 
him.  He  knew  the  movements  of  every 
shepherd  on  the  uplands,  and,  by  choosing 
his  routes,  could  wander  for  miles,  slinging 
stones  as  he  went,  without  risk  of  discovery. 
Whether  during  these  months  he  saw  any 
human  beings  is  unknown;  certainly  no 
human  being  recognised  him.  His  power  of 
self-concealment  amounted  to  genius. 

Such  was  the  second  madness  of  Shepherd 
Toller.  Things  from  the  abyss  of  Time  that 
float  upwards  into  dreams — sleeping  things 
whose  breath  sometimes  breaks  the  surface 
of  our  waking  consciousness,  like  bubbles 
rising  from  the  depths  of  I^ethe — these  had 
become  the  sober  certainties  of  Toller's  life. 
The  superincumbent  waters  had  parted 
asunder,  and  the  children  of  the  deep  were 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  141 

all  astir.  Toller  had  awakened  into  a  past 
which  lies  beyond  the  graves  of  buried  races 
and  had  joined  his  fathers  in  the  morning  of 
the  world. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  summer  Toller's 
health  began  to  decline.  He  was  attacked  by 
fierce  paroxysms  of  internal  pain,  which  left 
him  weak  and  helpless.  The  distant  forays 
had  to  be  abandoned;  there  was  no  more 
slinging  of  stones;  he  had  great  difficulty  in 
obtaining  food.  He  craved  most  for  milk, 
and  this  he  procured  at  considerable  risk  of 
discovery  by  descending  before  dawn  into  the 
lowlands  and  milking,  or  partially  milking, 
one  of  the  Ferryman  cows;  for  the  animals 
knew  his  voice  and  were  accustomed  to  his 
touch. 

This  was  the  posture  of  his  affairs  when  one 
day  he  became  apprised  of  the  presence  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  picnic-party  aforesaid. 
He  stalked  them  with  care,  saw  the  prepara- 
tion of  their  meal,  eyed  the  large  basket 
carried  by  the  grooms,  and  thought  with  long- 


142  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

ing  of  the  tea  it  was  sure  to  contain,  and  of 
the  brandy  that  might  be  there  also.  To  be 
possessed  of  one  or  both  of  these  things  would 
at  that  moment  have  satisfied  the  all-inclusive 
desire  of  the  sick  man's  soul,  and  he  thought 
of  every  possible  device  and  contrivance  by 
which  he  could  get  them  into  his  hands. 
None  promised  well.  At  last  he  half  resolved 
on  the  desperate  plan  of  scaring  the  pleasure- 
seekers  from  their  camp  by  bombarding  the 
ground  with  stones — a  plan  which  he  remem- 
bered to  have  proved  effective  with  a  party  of 
ladies  on  Clun  Downs.  But  he  doubted  his 
strength  for  such  a  sustained  effort,  and  re- 
flected that  a  party  which  contained  so  many 
men,  even  if  forced  to  retreat,  would  be  sure 
to  take  their  provender  with  them.  While  he 
was  thus  reflecting  he  saw  the  kettle  hoisted 
on  the  tripod,  shining  and  glinting  in  the  sun. 
Never  had  Toller  beheld  a  more  tempting 
mark.  The  range  was  easy;  his  station  was 
well  hidden;  and  the  kettle  was  the  hated 
symbol  of  his  disappointed  hopes.  'One 
more,^and  then  I've  done,"  I  sez  to  myself 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  0'  CLUN  DOWNS  143 

—thus  he  reported  to  Snarley  Bob— "and  I 
went  back  for  the  old  sling,  feelin'  better  than 
I'd  done  for  weeks.  I  picks  the  best  stone  I 
could  find,  and  kep'  on  whirlin'  her  round 
my  head  all  the  way  back.  Then  I  slaps  her 
in,  and  blessed  if  I  didn't  take  the  kettle  first 
shot!" 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  he  dis- 
covered Toller,  Snarley  came  home  with  a 
countenance  of  sorrow.  "I've  found  him, 
missis,"  he  said;  "but  he's  a  dyin'  man. 
Worn  to  a  shadder,  and  him  the  biggest  man 
in  the  parish.  It  would  ha'  scared  you  to  see 
him.  As  sane  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life. 
'Shepherd/  he  sez,  'I'm  starvin'.  Can  you 
get  me  a  bit  of  summat  as  I  can  eat  ? '  '  What 
would  you  like?'  I  sez.  He  sez,  'I  want 
baccy  and  buttermilk.  For  God's  sake,  get 
me  some  buttermilk.  It's  the  only  thing  as 
I  feel  'ud  keep  down;  and  the  pain's  that 
awful  it  a'most  tears  me  to  shreds.  And 
may  be  you  can  find  a  pinch  o'  tea  and  a  spot 
or  two  of  something  short.'  I  sez,  'You 


144  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

shall  have  it  all  this  very  night.  But  how's 
your  head?'  *  Terrible  heavy  at  the  back,' 
he  sez,  'but  clear  on  the  top.  I've  a'most 
done  wi'  slingin'  and  stealin'.  The  police  is 
after  me,  and  I'm  too  weak  to  dodge  'em  much 
longer;  they're  bound  to  catch  me  soon.  But 
they'll  get  nowt  but  a  bag  o'  bones,  and  they'll 
have  to  be  quick  if  they  want  'em  alive. 
Shepherd,  I'm  a  dyin'  man,  and  there's  not 
a  soul  to  stand  by  me  or  bury  me.'  'Yes, 
there  is,'  I  sez;  'you've  got  me.  I'll  stand  by 
you,  and  bury  you,  too.  If  the  police  catches 
you,  it'll  be  through  no  tellin'  o'  mine.  You 
go  back  to  your  hut,  and  we'll  keep  you  snug 
enough,  and  get  you  all  the  baccy  and  butter- 
milk as  you  wants.'  'Thank  God!'  he  sez; 
and  then  the  pain  took  him,  and  he  fair  rolled 
on  the  ground." 

"Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  widow  of  Snarley, 
"my  'usband  had  been  failin'  for  two  years 
afore  he  died.  But  it  was  that  affair  wi' 
Shepherd  Toller  as  broke  what  bit  o'  strength 
he'd  got  left.  I  wanted  him  to  tell  the  doctor 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  145 

as  he'd  found  him;  but  you  might  as  well  ha' 
tried  to  turn  the  church  round  as  move  my 
'usband  when  once  he'd  made  up  his  mind. 
'Nivver,  Polly!'  he  sez.  'I've  given  Shepherd 
Toller  my  word.  Besides,  he's  too  far  gone 
for  doctors  to  do  him  any  good.  He'll  not 
last  many  days.  And  I  knows  a  way  o' 
sendin'  him  to  sleep  as  beats  all  the  doctors' 
bottles.  You  leave  him  to  me.' 

"Well,  you  see,  sir,  I  knowed  very  well  as  he 
were  doing  wrong.  But  then  he  didn't  look 
at  it  that  way.  And  he  mostly  knowed  what 
he  were  doin',  my  'usband  did. 

"He  never  missed  goin'  to  Shepherd  Toller's 
hut  mornin'  nor  night.  He  took  him  butter- 
milk a'most  every  day;  and  oh,  my  word,  the 
lies  as  he  told  about  what  he  wanted  it  for! 
I've  known  him  walk  miles  to  get  it.  And 
then  he'd  sometimes  sit  up  wi'  him  half  the 
night  tryin'  to  get  him  to  sleep,  rubbin'  his 
back  and  his  head.  And  the  things  my 
'usband  used  to  tell  me  about  his  sufferin's — 
oh,  sir,  it  were  somethin'  awful!  .  .  .  Once 

my  'usband  asked  him  if  he'd  let  him  tell 

10 


146  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  doctor,  and  Shepherd  Toller  a'most  went 
out  o'  his  mind  with  fright.  'I've  got  to  see 
it  through,  Polly,'  he  sez  to  me;  'but  I  doubt 
if  it  won't  be  the  death  o'  me.' 

"Shepherd  Toller  took  to  his  bed  the  very 
day  as  my  'usband  met  him,  and  never  left  it, 
leastways  he  never  went  outside  the  hut  again. 
I  wanted  to  go  myself  and  look  after  him  a 
bit  in  the  daytime.  But  my  'usband  wouldn't 
let  me  go.  'He's  no  sight  for  you  to  look  at, 
missis,'  he  sez.  'Except  for  the  pain,  his 
mind's  at  rest.  Besides,  there's  nobody  but 
me  knows  how  to  talk  to  him,  and  there's 
nobody  but  me  as  he  wants  to  see.  You 
can't  make  him  no  comfortabler  than  he  is.' 

"But  it  were  a  terrible  strain  on  my  poor 
'usband,  and  there's  not  a  doubt  that  it  would 
ha'  killed  him  there  and  then  if  it  had  lasted 
much  longer.  It  were  about  three  weeks 
before  the  end  come,  and  nivver  shall  I  forget 
that  night — no,  not  if  I  was  to  live  to  be  a 
thousand  years  old. 

'My  master  come  home  about  ten  o'clock, 
lookin'  just  like  a  man  as  were  walkin'  in  his 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  147 

sleep.  I  couldn't  get  him  to  take  notice  o' 
nothin',  and  when  I  put  his  supper  on  the 
table  he  seemed  as  though  he  hardly 
knowed  what  it  were  for.  He  didn't  eat 
more  than  two  mouthfuls,  and  then  he 
turned  his  chair  round  to  the  fire,  tremblin' 
all  over. 

"After  a  bit  I  sees  him  drop  asleep  like. 
So  I  sez  to  myself,  'I'll  just  go  upstairs  to 
warm  his  bed  for  him,  and  then  I'll  come 
down  and  wake  him  up,'  and  I  begins  to  get 
the  warmin'-pan  ready.  He  were  mutterin' 
all  sorts  of  things;  but  I  didn't  take  much 
notice  o'  that,  because  that's  what  he  allus 
did  when  he  went  to  sleep  in  his  chair.  How- 
ever, I  did  notice  that  he  kep'  mutterin' 
something  about  a  dog. 

"Soon  he  wakes  up,  kind  o'  startled,  and 
sez,  'Missis,  let  that  dog  in;  he  won't  let  me 
get  a  wink  o'  sleep.'  'You  silly  man,'  I  sez, 
'you've  been  fast  asleep  for  three-quarters  of 
a'  hour.'  'Why,'  he  sez,  'I've  been  wide 
awake  all  the  time,  listenin'  to  the  dog  whinin' 
and  scratchin'  at  the  door,  and  I  was  too  tired 


148  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

to  get  up  and  let  him  in.  Open  the  door 
quick;  I'm  fair  sick  on  it.'  I  sez,  'What 
nonsense  you're  talkin'!  Why,  Boxer's  been 
lyin'  under  the  table  ever  since  you  come 
home  at  ten  o'clock.  He's  there  now.'  So 
he  looks  under  the  table,  and  there  sure 
enough  were  Boxer  fast  asleep.  'Well,'  he 
sez,  'it  must  be  another  dog.  Open  the 
door,  as  I  tell  you,  and  see  what  it  is.'  So 
I  opens  the  door;  and,  of  course,  there  were 
no  sign  of  a  dog.  'Are  you  satisfied  now?' 
I  sez.  'I  can't  make  it  out,'  he  sez;  'it's 
something  funny.  I'd  take  my  dyin'  oath 
as  there  were  a  dog  scratchin'.  But  maybe 
as  I'll  go  to  sleep  now.'  So  he  shuts  his 
eyes,  and  were  soon  off,  mutterin'  as  before. 

"Well,  I  was  just  goin'  upstairs  when  all 
of  a  sudden  he  give  a  scream  as  a' most  made 
me  drop  the  warmin'  pan.  '  What's  up  ?'  I 
sez.  'I've  burnt  my  hand  awful,'  he  sez. 
'  Burnt  your  hand  ?'  I  sez.  *  How  did  you 
manage  to  do  that  ?  Have  you  been  tumblin' 
into  the  fire?'  'I  don't  know,'  he  sez;  'but 
the  funny  thing  is  there's  no  mark  of  burnin' 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  149 

as  I  can  see.'  'Why,'  I  sez,  'it  must  be  the 
rheumatiz  in  yer  knuckles.  I'll  get  a  drop 
o'  turpentine,  and  rub  'em.'  So  I  gets  the 
turpentine,  and  begins  rubbin'  his  hand,  and 
his  arm  as  well.  He  sez,  'It's  just  like  a 
red-hot  nail  driven  slap  through  the  palm  o' 
my  hand.'  Well,  it  got  better  after  a  bit,  and 
I  made  him  go  to  bed,  though  he  were  that 
hot  and  excited  I  knowed  we  were  going  to 
have  a  wild  night. 

"The  minute  he  lay  down  he  went  to  sleep 
and  slep'  quietly  for  about  half  an  hour. 
Then  he  starts  groanin'  and  tossin'.  'It's 
beginnin','  I  sez  to  myself;  'I'd  better  light 
the  candle  so  as  to  be  ready.'  The  minute  I 
struck  the  match  he  jumps  out  o'  bed  like  a 
madman,  catches  hold  of  the  bedpost,  and 
begins  pullin'  the  bed  across  the  room.  '  What 
are  you  doin'?'  I  sez.  'I'm  pullin'  the  bed 
out  o'  the  fire,'  he  sez.  'Don't  you  see  the 
room's  burnin'  ? '  '  Come,  master,'  I  sez, 
'you've  got  the  nightmare.  Get  back  into 
bed  again,  and  keep  quiet.' 

"He  let  go  o'  the  bedpost  and  began  starin' 


150  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

in  front  of  him  with  the  most  awful  eyes  you 
ever  see.  'Are  you  blind?'  he  sez.  'Don't 
you  see  what's  'appenin'  ? '  '  Nothing's  'ap- 
penin','  I  sez;  'get  back  into  bed.'  'Look! 
he  sez,  'look  at  the  top  o'  that  hill!  Can't 
you  see  they're  crucifying  Shepherd  Toller  on 
a  red-hot  cross  ?  I  can  hear  him  screamin' 
wi'  pain.'  'Get  out,'  I  sez;  'Shepherd  Tol- 
ler's all  right.  Now  just  you  lie  down,  and 
think  no  more  about  it.'  But,  oh  dear,  you 
might  as  well  ha'  talked  to  thunder  and  light- 
nin'.  He  kep'  on  as  how  he  could  hear  Shep- 
herd Toller  screamin'  and  callin'  for  him, 
until  I  thought  I  should  ha'  gone  out  o'  my 
mind. 

"Just  then  a'  idea  come  to  me.  We'd  got 
a  bottle  o'  stuff  as  the  doctor  give  him  to  make 
him  sleep  when  the  rheumatiz  come  on  bad. 
So  I  pours  out  half  a  cupful,  and  I  sez,  'Here, 
you  drink  that,  and  it'll  stop  'em  crucifying 
Shepherd  Toller.'  He  drinks  it  down  at  a 
gulp,  and  then  he  sez,  'They've  took  him 
down.  But  I'm  afraid  he's  terrible  burnt.'  He 
soon  got  quiet  and  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep. 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  151 

"He  must  ha'  slep'  till  six  in  the  mornin', 
when  he  got  up.  'My  head's  achin'  awful,' 
he  sez.  'I've  been  dreamin'  about  Shepherd 
Toller  all  night.  I  believe  as  summat's  gone 
wrong  wi'  him.  Make  me  a  cup  o'  strong 
tea,  and  I'll  go  and  see  what's  up.' 


"When  my  'usband  got  to  the  hut  the  first 
thing  he  sees  were  Shepherd  Toller  lyin'  all 
of  a  heap  on  the  floor  wi'  his  clothes  half  burnt 
off  him  and  his  left  arm  lyin'  right  on  the  top  o' 
where  the  fire  had  been.  His  hand  were  like 
a  cinder,  and  he  were  burnt  all  over  his  body. 
He  were  still  livin'  and  able  to  speak.  *  How's 
this  happened — what  have  you  been  doin'  ? ' 
sez  my  'usband.  'It  were  the  cold,'  he  sez, 
'and  I  wanted  a  drop  o'  brandy.  And  the 
dog  were  tryin'  to  get  in.  You  shut  him 
out  wrhen  you  went  away.' 

"Well,  my  'usband  gave  him  brandy  and 
managed  to  lift  him  on  to  the  bed.  'I  never 
thought  as  I  should  die  like  this,'  he  sez. 
'Bury  the  old  dog  wi'  me,  shepherd,  and  put 


158  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  slings  alongside  o'  me  and  the  little  axe  in 
my  hand.  And  see  there's  plenty  o'  stones/ 
That  was  the  last  he  said,  though  he  kep' 
repeatin'  it  as  long  as  he  could  speak.  It 
were  not  more  than  an  hour  after  my  master 
found  him  before  he  were  gone. 

"My  'usband  dug  his  grave  wi'  his  own 
hands,  close  beside  the  hut,  and  buried  him 
next  day.  He  put  the  axe  and  slings  just  as 
he  told  him,  wi'  the  stones  and  all  the  bits  of 
flint  things  as  he  found  in  the  hut.  What 
went  most  to  his  heart  were  shootin'  the  old 
dog.  He  telled  me  as  he  were  sure  the  dog 
knowed  he  were  goin'  to  kill  him,  and  stood 
as  quiet  as  a  lamb  beside  the  grave  when 
he  pointed  the  gun.  'It  were  worse  than 
murder,'  he  said,  'and  I  shall  see  him  to  my 
dyin'  day.  But  I'd  given  my  word,  and  I  had 
to  do  it." 

"No,  sir,  not  a  livin'  soul,  exceptin'  me, 
knew  what  had  happened  till  my  'usband  told 
Mrs.  Abel  and  you  three  days  before  he  died. 
That  were  eighteen  months  after  he'd  buried 
Shepherd  Toller.  Of  course,  he'd  ha'  got  into 


SHEPHERD  TOLLER  O'  CLUN  DOWNS  153 

trouble  if  they'd  knowed  what  he'd  done. 
But  he  weren't  afraid,  and  he  used  to  say  to 
me,  *  Don't  you  bother,  missis.  They  can't 
do  nothing  to  you  when  I'm  gone.  Let  'em 
say  what  they  like;  you  and  me  knows  as 
I've  done  no  wrong.  There's  only  one  thing 
as  I  can't  bear  to  think  on.  And  that's 
shootin'  the  old  dog." 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE 
COMPANION 

WHETHER  Snarley  Bob  was  mad  or  sane  is  a 
question  which  the  reader,  ere  now,  has  prob- 
ably answered  for  himself.  If  he  thinks  him 
mad,  his  conclusion  will  repeat  the  view  held, 
during  his  lifetime,  by  many  of  Snarley's 
equals  and  by  some  of  his  betters.  In  support 
of  the  opposite  opinion,  I  will  only  say  that  he 
was  sane  enough  to  hold  his  tongue  in  general 
about  certain  matters,  which,  had  he  freely 
talked  of  them,  would  have  been  regarded 
as  strong  evidence  of  insanity. 

The  chief  of  these  was  his  intercourse  with 
the  Invisible  Companion — invisible  to  all 
save  Snarley  Bob.  That  designation,  how- 
ever, is  not  Snarley's,  but  my  own;  and  I  use 
it  because  I  do  not  wish  to  commit  myself  to 

154 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  155 

the  identification  of  this  personage  with  any 
individual,  historical  or  imaginary.  Snarley 
generally  called  him  "the  Shepherd";  some- 
times, "the  Master";  and  he  used  no  other 
name. 

With  this  "Master"  Snarley  claimed  to  be 
on  terms  of  intimacy  which  go  beyond  the 
utmost  reaches  of  authentic  mysticism. 
Whether  the  being  in  question  was  a  fig- 
ment of  the  brain  or  a  real  inhabitant  of 
time  and  space,  let  the  reader,  once  more, 
decide  for  himself.  Some  being  there  was, 
at  all  events,  of  whose  companionship  Snarley 
was  aware  under  circumstances  which  are 
not  usually  associated  with  such  matters. 

There  is  much  in  this  connection  that  must 
needs  remain  obscure.  The  only  witness  who 
could  have  cleared  those  obscurities  away  has 
long  been  beyond  the  reach  of  summons.  To 
none  else  than  Mrs.  Abel  was  Snarley  ever 
known  to  open  free  communication  on  the 
subject. 

He  spoke  now  and  then  of  a  dim,  far-off 
time  when  he  had  been  a  "Methody."  But 


156  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

he  had  shown  scant  perseverance  in  the  road 
which,  strait  and  narrow  though  it  be,  has 
now  become  easy  to  trace,  being  well  marked 
by  the  tread  of  countless  bleeding  feet.  In- 
stead of  continuing  therein,  he  had  "leapt 
over  the  wall"  into  the  surrounding  waste, 
and  struck  out,  by  a  path  of  his  own  devising, 
for  the  land  of  Beulah.  By  all  recognised 
precedent  he  ought  to  have  failed  in  arriving. 
I  will  not  say  he  succeeded;  but  he  himself 
was  well  content  with  the  result.  It  is  true 
that  in  all  his  desert-wanderings  he  never 
lost  the  chart  and  compass  with  which  Meth- 
odism had  once  provided  him;  but  he  filled 
in  the  chart  at  points  where  Methodism  had 
left  it  blank,  and  put  the  compass  to  uses 
which  were  not  contemplated  by  the  original 
makers. 

For  many  years  before  his  death  Snarley 
entered  neither  the  church  nor  the  chapel; 
and,  I  regret  to  say,  he  had  a  very  low  opinion 
of  both.  This  was  one  of  the  few  matters  on 
which  he  and  Hankin  were  agreed,  though  for 
opposite  reasons.  Hankin  objected  to  these 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  157 

institutions  because  they  went  too  far;  Snarley 
because  they  went  not  nearly  far  enough.  It 
may,  however,  be  noted  that  in  the  tap-room 
of  the  Nag's  Head,  where  the  blasphemy  of 
the  Divine  name  was  a  normal  occurrence, 
Snarley,  of  whose  displeasure  everybody  went 
in  fear,  would  never  allow  the  name  of  Christ 
to  be  so  much  as  mentioned,  not  even  argu- 
mentatively  by  Hankin;  and  once  when  a 
foul-mouthed  navvy  had  used  the  name  as 
part  of  some  filthy  oath,  Snarley  instantly 
challenged  the  man  to  fight,  struck  him  a 
fearful  blow  between  the  eyes  and  pitched 
him  headlong,  with  a  shattered  face,  into  the 
village  street.  But  in  the  matter  of  contempt 
for  the  religious  practice  of  his  neighbours,  his 
attitude  was,  if  possible,  more  extreme  than 
Hankin' s.  I  need  not  quote  his  utterances 
on  these  matters;  except  for  their  unusual 
violence,  they  were  sufficiently  commonplace, 
Had  Snarley  been  more  highly  developed  as 
"a  social  being"  he  would,  no  doubt,  have 
been  less  intolerant;  but  solitude  had  made 
him  blind  on  that  side  of  his  nature;  for  his 


158  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

fellow-men  in  general  he  had  little  sympathy 
and  less  admiration,  his  soul  being  as  lonely 
as  his  body  when  wandering  before  the  dawn 
on  some  upland  waste. 

Lonely,  save  for  the  frequent  presence,  by 
day  and  night,  of  his  ghostly  monitor  and 
friend.  To  understand  the  nature  of  this 
companionship  we  must  remember  that  de- 
votion to  the  shepherd's  craft  was  the  con- 
trolling principle  of  Snarley's  being.  Had  he 
been  able  to  philosophise  on  the  basis  of  his 
experience,  he  would  have  found  it  impossible 
to  represent  perfection  as  grounded  otherwise 
than  on  a  supreme  skill  in  the  breeding  and 
management  of  sheep.  No  being,  in  his  view 
of  things,  could  wear  the  title  of  "good 
Shepherd"  for  any  other  reason.  Taking 
Snarley  all  round,  I  dare  say  he  was  not  a  bad 
man;  but  I  doubt  if  there  was  any  sin  which 
smelt  so  rank  in  his  nostrils  as  the  loss  of  a 
lamb  through  carelessness,  nor  any  virtue  he 
rated  so  high  as  that  which  was  rewarded  by 
a  first  prize  at  the  agricultural  show.  The 
form  of  his  ideal,  and  the  direction  of  his. 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  159 

hero-worship,  were    determined    accordingly. 

The  name  preferred  by  Snarley  was,  as  I 
have  said,  "the  Shepherd,"  and  the  term  was 
no  metaphor.  He  was  familiar  with  every 
passage  in  the  New  Testament  where  mention 
is  made  of  sheep;  he  knew,  for  example,  the 
opening  verses  of  the  tenth  chapter  of  St.  John 
by  heart;  and  all  these  metaphorical  passages 
were  translated  by  him  into  literal  meaning. 
That  is  to  say,  the  Person  to  whom  they  refer, 
or  by  whom  they  were  spoken,  was  one  whom 
Snarley  found  it  especially  fitting  to  consult, 
and  whose  sympathy  he  was  most  vividly 
aware  of,  in  doing  his  own  duty  as  a  guardian 
of  sheep. 

For  instance,  it  was  his  practice  to  guide 
the  flock  by  walking  before  them;  and  this 
he  explained  as  "a  way  'the  Shepherd'  had." 
He  said  that  when  walking  behind  he  was 
invariably  alone;  but  when  going  in  front 
"the  Shepherd"  was  frequently  by  his  side. 
And  there  were  greater  "revelations"  than 
this.  During  the  lambing  season,  when 
Snarley  would  often  spend  the  night  in  his 


160  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

box,  high  up  among  the  wolds,  "the  Shepherd" 
would  announce  his  presence  towards  mid- 
night by  giving  a  signal,  which  Snarley  would 
immediately  answer,  and  pass  long  hours  with 
him  communing  on  the  mysteries  of  their 
craft. 

From  this  source  Snarley  professed  to  have 
derived  some  of  the  secrets  on  which  his 
system  of  breeding  was  founded.  'The 
Shepherd'  had  put  him  up  to  them."  He  said 
that  it  was  "the  Shepherd"  who  had  turned 
his  thoughts  to  Spain  as  the  country  which 
would  provide  him  with  a  short-eared  ram. 
"The  Shepherd"  had  assisted  in  the  creation 
of  "Thunderbolt,"  had  indicated  the  meadows 
where  the  "Spanish  cross"  would  find  the  best 
pasturage,  and  never  failed  to  warn  him  when 
he  was  going  to  make  a  serious  mistake.  In 
his  brilliant  successes,  which  were  many,  at 
agricultural  shows  and  such  like,  Snarley 
disclaimed  every  tittle  of  merit  for  himself, 
assuring  Mrs.  Abel  that  it  was  all  due  to  the 
guidance  of  "the  Shepherd."  Of  the  prize- 
money  which  came  to  him  in  this  way — for 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  161 

Farmer  Ferryman  let  him  have  it  all — Snarley 
would  never  spend  a  sixpence;  it  was  all  "the 
Shepherd's  money,"  and  was  promptly  banked 
"that  the  missis  might  have  a  bit  when  he 
were  gone" — the  "bit"  amounting,  if  I  re- 
member rightly,  to  four  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds. 

Throughout  these  communings  there  was 
scarcely  a  trace  of  moral  reference  in  the  usual 
senses  of  the  term.  One  rule  of  life,  and  one 
only,  Snarley  professed  to  have  derived  from 
his  invisible  monitor — that  "the  good  shepherd 
giveth  his  life  for  the  sheep."  This  rule, 
also,  he  accepted  in  a  strictly  literal  sense,  and 
considered  himself  under  orders  accordingly. 
Thus  interpreted,  it  was  for  him  the  one  rule 
which  summed  up  the  essential  content  of  the 
whole  moral  law. 

I  am  not  able  to  recall  any  notable  act  of 
heroism  or  self-sacrifice  performed  by  Snarley 
on  behalf  of  his  flock;  but  perhaps  we  shall 
not  err  in  regarding  his  whole  life  as  such  an 
act.  When,  in  his  old  age,  physical  suffering 

overtook  him — the  result  of  a  life-time  of  toil 

11 


162  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

and  exposure  to  the  elements — he  bore  it  as  a 
good  soldier  should  bear  his  wounds,  sustained 
by  the  consciousness  that  pain  such  as  his  was 
the  lot  of  every  shepherd  "as  did  his  duty  by 
the  sheep." 

Nor  am  I  aware  that  he  displayed  any 
emotional  tenderness  towards  his  charges; 
and  certainly,  I  may  add,  his  personal  appear- 
ance would  not  have  recommended  him  to 
a  painter  in  search  of  a  model  for  the  Good 
Shepherd  of  traditional  art.  In  eliminating 
undesirable  specimens  from  the  flock,  Snarley 
was  as  ruthless  as  Nature;  and  when  the 
butcher's  man  drove  them  off  to  the  shambles 
he  would  watch  their  departure  without  a 
qualm.  It  was  certainly  said  that  he  would 
never  slaughter  a  sheep  with  his  own  hands, 
not  even  when  death  was  merciful;  on  the 
other  hand,  he  would  sternly  execute,  by 
shooting,  any  dog  that  showed  a  tendency  to 
bite  or  worry  the  flock.  There  was  one  doubt- 
ful case  of  this  kind  which  Snarley  told  Mrs. 
Abel  he  had  settled  by  reference  to  his  monitor 
— the  verdict  being  adverse  to  the  dog.  The 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  163 

monitor  was,  indeed,  his  actual  Master — the 
captain  of  the  ship  whose  orders  were  invio- 
lable,— Farmer  Ferryman  being  only  the 
purser  from  whom  he  received  his  pay:  a 
view  of  the  relationship  which  probably 
worked  to  Ferryman's  great  advantage. 

In  short,  whatever  may  have  been  Snarley's 
sins  or  virtues  in  other  directions,  "th» 
Shepherd"  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  The  burden  which  Snarley  laid  at  his 
feet  was  the  burden  which  had  bent  his  back, 
and  crippled  his  limbs,  and  gnarled  his  hands, 
and  furrowed  his  broad  brows  during  seventy 
years  of  hardship  and  toil.  Moral  lapses — in 
the  matter  of  drink  and,  at  one  time,  of 
fighting — occasionally  took  place;  but  they 
were  never  known  to.be  followed  by  any  re- 
ference to  the  disapproval  of  "the  Shepherd." 
In  some  respects,  indeed,  Robert  Dellanow 
showed  himself  singularly  deficient  in  moral 
graces.  To  the  very  end  of  his  life  he  was 
given  to  outbreaks  of  violent  behaviour — as 
we  have  seen;  and  not  only  would  he  show 
no  signs  of  after-contrition  for  his  bad  conduct, 


164  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

but  would  hint,  at  times,  that  his  invisible 
companion  had  been  a  partner,  or  at  least  an 
unreproving  spectator,  in  what  he  had  done. 
But  if  he  made  a  mistake  in  feeding  the  ewes 
or  in  doctoring  the  lambs,  Snarley  would  say, 
I  don't  know  what  'the  Shepherd'  will  think 
o'  me.  I'll  hardly  have  the  face  to  meet  him 
next  time."  Once,  on  the  other  hand,  when 
there  had  been  a  heavy  snowfall  towards  the 
end  of  April,  and  desperate  work  in  digging 
the  flock  out  of  a  drift,  he  described  the 
success  of  the  operations  to  Mrs.  Abel  by 
saying,  "It  were  a  job  as  'the  Shepherd'  him- 
self might  be  proud  on." 

In  the  last  period  of  his  life,  however, 
gleams  of  his  earlier  Methodism  occasionally 
shot  through,  and  showed  plainly  enough  of 
whom  he  was  thinking.  As  with  most  men 
of  his  craft,  his  old  age  was  made  grievous  by 
rheumatism;  there  were  times,  indeed,  when 
every  joint  of  his  body  was  in  agony.  All 
this  Snarley  bore  with  heroic  fortitude,  stick- 
ing to  his  duties  on  days  when  he  described 
himself  as  "a'most  blind  wi'  pain."  We 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  165 

have  seen  what  sustained  him,  and  it  was 
strengthened,  of  course,  as  he  told  some  of  us, 
by  the  belief  that  "the  Shepherd"  had  borne 
far  worse.  When  at  last  the  rheumatism 
invaded  the  valves  of  his  heart,  and  every 
walk  up  the  hill  was  an  invitation  to  Death, 
the  old  man  still  held  on,  unmoved  by  the 
doctor's  warnings  and  the  urgency  of  his 
friends.  The  Perrymans  implored  him  to 
desist,  and  promised  a  pension;  his  wife 
threatened  and  wept;  Mrs.  Abel  added  her 
entreaties.  To  the  latter  he  replied,  "Not 
till  I  drops!  As  long  as  'the  Shepherd'  's 
there  to  meet  me  I  know  as  I'm  wanted. 
The  lambs  ha'  got  to  be  fed.  Besides  'the 
Shepherd'  and  me  has  an  understandin'. 
I'll  never  give  in  while  I  can  stand  on  my 
legs  and  hold  my  crook  in  my  hand." 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  every  phase 
of  Snarley's  connection  with  Toller  was  laid 
before  "the  Shepherd."  Each  new  develop- 
ment was  subject  to  his  guidance.  Shortly 
after  Toller's  disappearance,  Snarley  said  to 
Mrs.  Abel,  "Me  and  'the  Shepherd'  has  been 


166  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

talkin'  it  over.  He  sez  to  me,  'Snarley, 
when  you  lose  a  sheep,  you  goes  after  it  into 
the  wilderness,  and  you  looks  and  looks  till 
you  finds.  But  this  time  it's  a  shepherd 
that's  lost.  Now  you  stay  quiet  where  you 
are,  and  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  day 
and  night.  I  know  where  he  is;  he's  all 
right;  and  I'm  lookin'  after  him.  By  and 
by  I'm  going  to  hand  him  over  to  you.  Him 
and  you  has  got  to  drink  together,  but  it'll 
be  a  drink  o'  gall  for  both  on  you.  When 
the  time  comes,  I'll  give  you  the  sign." 

"The  sign  come,"  he  added,  later  on,  "the 
sign  come  that  night  in  the  Nag's  Head,  when 
the  groom  told  us  about  the  kettle.  I'd 
just  had  a  drop  o'  something  short,  and  when 
I  looks  up  there  were  'the  Shepherd'  sittin' 
in  the  chair  next  but  one  to  Shoemaker  Han- 
kin.  Just  then  the  groom  come  in,  and 
'the  Shepherd'  gets  up  and  comes  over  to  a 
little  table  where  I'd  got  my  glass.  The 
groom  sits  down  where  'the  Shepherd'  had 
been,  and  'the  Shepherd'  sits  down  opposite 
to  me.  The  groom  says,  'Boys,  I've  got 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  167 

summat  to  tell  you  as'll  make  your  hair 
stand  on  end.'  'Fire  away,'  says  Tom  Barter; 
and  'the  Shepherd,'  he  holds  up  his  finger 
and  looks  at  me.  When  the  groom  had  done, 
and  they  were  all  shoutin'  and  laughin',  'the 
Shepherd'  leans  across  the  table  and  whispers, 
close  in  my  ear,  'Snarley,  the  hour's  come! 
Drink  up  what's  left  in  your  glass.  It's 
time  to  be  goin'." 

During  the  trying  time  of  his  concealment 
and  tending  of  Toller,  "the  Shepherd's" 
presence  became  more  frequent,  and  Snarley's 
characterisation  more  precise.  The  belief  that 
"the  Shepherd"  was  "backing  him  up" 
gave  Snarley  a  will  of  iron.  When  Mrs. 
Abel,  on  the  night  of  his  confession,  essayed 
to  reprove  him  for  not  obtaining  medical 
assistance  for  Toller,  he  drew  himself  as  erect 
as  his  crippled  limbs  allowed,  and  said 
quietly,  in  a  manner  that  closed  discussion, 
"It  were  'the  Master's'  orders,  my  lady. 
He'd  handed  him  over  to  me."  He  also  said, 
or  hinted,  that  "the  Master"  had  taught 


168  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

him  the  method — whatever  it  may  have  been 
for  sending  Toller  to  sleep,  "that  were  better 
than  all  the  doctor's  bottles."  From  the 
same  source,  doubtless,  came  his  secret  for 
"setting  Toller's  mind  at  rest."  That  secret 
is  undivulged;  but  it  was  connected  in  some 
way  with  what  Snarley  called  "the  Shepherd's 
Plan,"  of  which  all  we  could  learn  was  that 
"there  were  three  men  on  three  crosses,  him 
in  the  middle  being  'the  Shepherd,'  and  them 
at  the  sides  being  Toller  and  me." 

"There  were  allus  three  on  us  in  the  hut," 
said  Snarley,  "and  all  three  were  men  as 
knowed  what  pain  were.  Both  Toller  and 
me  was  drinking  out  o'  'the  Shepherd's'  cup, 
and  he'd  promised  to  stay  by  us  till  the  last 
drop  was  gone.  'It's  full  o'  fury  and  wrath,' 
sez  he;  'but  it's  got  to  be  drunk  by  them  as 
wants  to  drive  their  flock  among  the  stars. 
I've  gone  before,  and  you're  comin'  after. 
When  you've  done  this  there'll  be  no  more 
like  it.  The  next  cup  will  be  full  o'  wine, 
and  we'll  all  three  drink  it  together." 

In  this  wise  did  Snarley  and  Toller  receive 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  169 

the  Sacrament  in  their  dark  and  lonely  den. 
The  night  on  which  Snarley  came  home 
"like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep" — the  last 
night  of  Toller's  life — was  wild,  wet,  and  very 
dark.  With  a  lantern  in  one  hand,  a  can 
of  milk  in  the  other,  and  a  bag  of  sticks  on 
his  back,  the  old  man  stumbled  through  the 
night  until  he  reached  the  last  slope  leading 
to  Toller's  hut.  Here  the  lantern  was  blown 
out,  and  Snarley,  after  depositing  his  burdens, 
sat  down,  dizzy  and  faint,  on  a  stone.  In  his 
pocket  was  an  eight-ounce  bottle,  containing  a 
meagre  sixpenn'orth  of  brandy  for  Shepherd 
Toller.  Snarley  fingered  the  bottle,  and  then, 
with  quick  resolution,  withdrew  his  hand. 
"For  the  life  o'  me,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't 
remember  where  I  was.  I  felt  as  though  the 
hillside  were  whirlin'  round,  carryin'  me  with 
it.  And  then  I  felt  as  though  I  were  sinkin' 
into  the  ground.  Til  never  get  there  this 
night,'  I  sez  to  myself.  Just  then  I  hears 
something  movin',  and  blessed  if  it  wasn't 
Toller's  old  dog  as  had  come  to  look  for  me. 
He  come  jumpin'  up  and  begins  lickin'  my 


170  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

face.  Well,  it  put  a  bit  o'  heart  into  me  to 
feel  the  old  dog.  So  I  picks  up  the  can  and 
the  bundle,  and  off  I  goes  again;  and,  though 
I  wouldn't  ha'  believed  it,  it  weren't  more  than 
eighty  yards,  or  a  hundred  at  most,  to  the  hut. 

"When  I  come  to  the  edge  of  the  pit  I  sees 
a  lantern  burnin'  near  the  door,  wonderful 
bright;  and  there  were  'the  Shepherd'  sittin' 
on  a  stone,  same  as  I'd  been  doin'  myself  a 
minute  before.  As  soon  as  he  sees  me  comin', 
he  waves  his  lantern  and  calls  out,  'Have  a 
care,  Snarley,  it's  a  steep  and  narrow  road.' 
Well,  the  path  down  into  the  pit  were  as 
slippery  as  ice,  and  I  tell  you  I'd  never  ha' 
got  down — at  least,  not  without  breakin' 
some  o'  my  bones — if  'the  Shepherd'  hadn't 
kep'  showin'  me  a  light. 

"So  I  comes  up  to  where  he  were;  and 
then  I  noticed  as  he  were  wet  through,  just 
as  I  were,  and  looking  regular  wore  out. 
'Snarley,'  he  sez  to  me,  'you  carry  your  cross 
like  a  man.'  'I  learnt  that  from  you,  Mas- 
ter,' I  sez;  'but  you  look  as  though  yours 
had  been  a  bit  too  heavy  for  you  this  time.' 


'We've  had  terrible  work  to-day/  he  sez; 
'we've  been  dividin'  the  sheep  from  the 
goats.  And  there's  no  keepin'  'em  apart. 
We  no  sooner  gets  'em  sorted  than  they 
mixes  themselves  up  again,  till  you  don't 
know  where  you  are.'  'Why  didn't  you  let 
me  come  and  help  you  ?'  I  sez.  '  I'd  ha' 
brought  Boxer,  and  he'd  ha'  settled  'em  pretty 
quick.'  'No,  no,'  he  sez;  'your  hour's  not 
come.  When  I  wants  you,  I'll  give  you  a 
sign  as  you  can't  mistake.  Besides,  you're 
not  knowledgable  in  goats.  Feed  my  sheep.' 
'Well,'  I  sez,  'when  you  wants  me,  you  knows 
where  to  find  me.'  'Right,'  he  sez;  'but  it's 
Toller  we'll  be  wantin'  first.  And  I've  been 
thinkin'  as  p'raps  he'd  oblige  us  by  lettin'  us 
have  the  loan  of  his  dog  for  a  bit.'  'I'll  go  in 
and  ask  him,'  I  sez;  'I  don't  suppose  he'll  have 
any  objection.'  Then  'the  Shepherd'  blew  his 
lantern  out,  and  I  see  him  no  more  that  night. 
"Me  and  the  dog  goes  into  the  hut,  and  I 
could  hear  as  Toller  were  fast  asleep  in  his 
bed.  I  begins  blowin'  up  the  embers  in  the 
fire,  and  when  the  blaze  come  the  old  dog 


172  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

lay  down  as  though  he  meant  goin'  to  sleep. 
But  I  could  see  as  there  was  somethin'  on 
his  mind,  for  he  kept  cockin'  his  nose  up,  and 
sniffin'  and  lookin*  round.  Then  he  gets 
up  and  begins  scratchin'  at  the  door,  as  he 
allus  did  when  he  wanted  to  go  out.  So  I  opens 
the  door,  and  out  he  rushes  into  the  dark,  like 
a  mad  thing,  barkin'  as  though  he  smelt  a  fox. 

"When  I'd  done  what  I'd  come  to  do,  I 
puts  the  brandy  and  the  buttermilk  where 
they'd  be  handy  for  Shepherd  Toller  to  get 
'em,  and  then  I  goes  to  the  door  and  begins 
whistlin'  for  the  dog.  But  no  sign  of  him 
could  I  hear  or  see,  though  I  kep'  on  whistlin' 
for  full  a  quarter  of  a'  hour.  It  were  strange 
as  it  didn't  wake  Shepherd  Toller,  but  he 
kep'  on  sleepin'  like  a  child  in  a  thunder- 
storm. At  last  I  give  it  up  and  shut  the  door 
and  went  home.  How  I  got  back,  I  don't 
know.  I  can't  remember  nothing  till  my 
missis  catched  hold  on  me  and  pulled  me  in 
through  the  door." 

"I'd  never  ha'  been  able  to  shoot  the  old 


SNARLEY  BOB'S  INVISIBLE  COMPANION  178 

dog,"  said  Snarley,  "if  'the  Shepherd'  hadn't 
made  me  do  it.  I  turned  fair  sick  when  I  put 
the  charge  in  the  gun,  and  when  I  pointed  it 
at  him  I  was  in  such  a  tremble  that  I  couldn't 
aim  straight.  I  tried  three  or  four  times  to 
get  steady,  the  dog  standin'  as  still  as  still  all 
the  while,  except  that  he  kep'  waggin'  his  tail. 
"All  of  a  sudden  I  sees  'the  Shepherd,'  plain 
as  plain.  He  were  standin'  just  behind  the  old 
dog,  strokin'  his  head.  'Shoot,  Snarley,'  he 
sez;  'shoot,  and  we'll  look  after  him.'  'Stand 
back,  then,  Master,'  I  sez;  'for  I'm  goin'  to 
fire.'  'Fire,'  he  sez;  'but  aim  lower.  The 
shot  won't  hurt  me*  and  he  went  on  strokin' 
the  dog's  head.  So  I  pulls  the  trigger,  and 
when  the  smoke  cleared  'the  Shepherd'  were 
gone,  and  the  dog  were  lyin'  dead  as  any 
stone." 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY 
BOB 

"HE'D  a  rough  tongue,  sir;  but  he'd  a  good 
'eart,"  said  the  widow  of  Snarley  Bob.  "Oh, 
sir,  but  he  were  a  wonderful  man,  were  my 
master.  I  never  knowed  one  like  him — no, 
nor  never  'eard  o'  one.  I  didn't  think  on  it 
while  he  were  living;  but  now'  he's  gone  I 
know  what  I've  lost.  That  clever!  Why, 
he  often  used  to  say  to  me.  'Polly,  there  ain't 
a  bit  of  blessed  owt  as  I  couldn't  do,  if  I  tried.' 
And  it  were  true,  sir.  And  him  nothing  but 
a  shepherd  all  his  life,  and  never  earned  more'n 
eighteen  shillin'  a  week  takin'  it  all  the  year 
round.  And  us  wi'  a  family  of  thirteen 
children,  without  buryin'  one  on  'em,  and  all 
married  and  doin'  well.  And  only  one  fault, 
sir,  and  that  not  so  bad  as  it  is  in  some.  He 

174 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  175 

would  have  his  drop  of  drink — that  is,  when- 
ever he  could  get  it.  Not  that  he  spent  his 
wages  on  it,  except  now  and  then  after  the 
children  was  growed  up.  But  you  see,  sir, 
he  was  that  amusin'  in  his  talk,  and  folks 
used  to  treat  him. 

"Well,  sir,  it  was  last  Saturday  fortnight, 
as  I  was  tellin'  you,  he  come  home  for  the  last 
time.  I  can  see  'im  now,  just  as  he  come 
staggerin'  in  at  that  door.  I  thought  when  I 
saw  him  that  he'd  had  a  drop  o'  drink,  though 
he'd  not  been  'avin'  any  for  a  long  time.  So 
I  sez  to  myself,  'I'd  better  make  'im  a  cup  o' 
tea,'  and  I  begins  puttin'  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 
'What  are  you  doin'?'  he  sez.  'I'm  goin'  to 
give  you  a  cup  o'  tea,'  I  sez;  'It'll  do  yer  good.' 
'No,  it  won't,'  he  sez,  'I've  done  wi'  cups  o' 
tea  in  this  world.'  'Why,'  I  sez,  'what 
rubbish!  'Ere,  sit  yer  down,  and  let  me  pull 
yer  boots  off.'  'You  can  pull  'em  off,'  he  sez 
'but  ye'll  never  see  me  put  'em  on  again.' 

"I  could  see  by  this  that  it  wasn't  drink 
besides  I  couldn't  smell  any.  So  I  gets  'im 
into  his  chair  and  begins  pullin'  his  boots  off. 


176  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

*  What  makes  you  talk  like  that  ?'  I  sez.  *  You 
knows  as  you  was  ever  so  much  better  last 
night.  When  you've  had  yer  medicine  you'll 
be  all  right.'  He  said  nowt  for  a  time,  but 
just  sat,  tremblin'  and  shiverin'  in  his  chair. 
So  I  sez,  *  Hadn't  you  better  'ave  the  doctor  ? ' 
'It's  no  good,'  he  sez;  'I'm  come  'ome  for  the 
last  time.  It'll  be  good-bye  this  time,  missis.' 
'Not  it,'  I  sez;  'you've  got  many  years  to  live 
yet.  Why,  wot's  to  make  yer  die  ? '  'It's  my 
'eart,'  he  sez;  'it's  all  flip-floppin'  about  in- 
side me,  and  gurglin'  like  a  stuck  pig.  It's 
wore  out,  and  I  keep  gettin'  that  faint.*  'Oh,' 
I  sez,  'cheer  up;  when  you've  'ad  a  cup  o' 
tea  you'll  feel  better';  but  I'd  hardly  got  the 
words  out  o'  my  mouth  before  he  were  gone 
in  a  dead  faint. 


"We  got  'im  to  bed  between  the  three  on 
us,  and,  my  word,  it  were  a  job  gettin'  'im  up 
them  narrer  stairs!  As  soon  as  we'd  made 
'im  comfortable,  he  sez  to  me,  'Wot  I  told 
yer's  comin'  to-night,  Polly.  They've  been  a- 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  177 

callin'  on  me  all  day.  I  see  'em  and  'ear  'em, 
too.  Loud  as  loud.  Plain  as  plain.'  *  Who's 
been  callin'  yer?'  I  sez.  'The  messengers 
o'  death,'  he  sez;  'and  they're  in  this  room, 
four  on  'em,  now.  I  can  'ear  'em  movin' 
and  talkin'  to  one  another.'  'Oh,'  I  sez, 
'it's  all  fancy.  What  you  'ear  is  me  and  Mrs. 
Rowe.  You  lie  quiet  and  go  to  sleep,  and 
you'll  be  better  in  the  mornin'.'  He  only 
shook  his  'ead  and  said,  'I  can  'ear  'em.' 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  was  about  'alf  a'  hour 
after  this  when  Mrs.  Rowe  sez  to  me,  'He 
looks  like  goin'  to  sleep  now,  Mrs,  Dellanow, 
so  I  think  I'll  go  'ome  and  get  my  master  'is 
supper';  and  she  was  just  goin'  down  the  stairs 
when  all  of  a  sudden  he  starts  up  in  bed  and 
sez,  '  Do  you  'ear  that  whistle  blowin'  ?' 
'No,'  I  sez,  'you've  been  dreamin'.  There 
isn't  nobody  whistlin'  at  this  time  o'  night.' 
'Yes,'  he  sez,  'there  is,  and  it  blowed  three 
times.  There's  thousands  and  thousands  of 
sheep,  and  a  tall  shepherd  whistlin'  to  his 
dog.  But  he's  got  no  dog,  and  it's  me  he's 
whistlin'  for.' 

12 


178  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"Now,  sir,  you  must  understand  that  my 
'usband  when  he  was  with  the  sheep  used 
to  work  his  dog  wi'  whistlin'  instead  of 
shoutin'  to  it  as  most  shepherds  do.  You  can 
see  his  whistle  hangin'  on  that  nail — that's 
where  he  hung  it  'isself  for  twenty-five  years. 
You  see,  he  was  kind  o'  superstitious  and  used 
to  say  it  was  bad  luck  to  keep  yer  whistle  in 
yer  pocket  when  you  went  to  bed.  So  he 
always  hung  it  on  that  nail,  the  last  thing  at 
night. 

"'Why,'  I  sez,  tryin'  to  humour  'im,  'it's 
his  dog  he's  whistlin'  for,  not  you.  His  dog's 
somewhere  where  you  can't  see  it.  He  doesn't 
want  you.  You  lie  back  again,  and  go  to 
sleep.'  'No,  no,'  sez  he;  'there's  no  dog,  and 
the  sheep's  runnin'  everywhere,  thousands  on 
'em.  It's  me  he's  whistlin'  for,  and  we  must 
whistle  back  to  say  I'm  comin'.  Fetch  it 
down  from  the  nail,  Polly.  There  he  is  again ! 
He's  the  tallest  shepherd  I  ever  saw.  He's 
one  of  them  four  that  was  in  the  room  just 
now.  Whistle  back,  Polly,  and  then  it'll  be 
all  right.'  And  so  he  kep'  on,  again  and  again. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  179 

"Mrs.  Rowe,  who'd  come  into  the  room, 
said  to  me,  'If  I  was  you,  Mrs.  Dellanow,  I'd 
fetch  the  whistle  and  blow  it.  It'll  quiet 
'im,  and  then  p'raps  he'll  go  to  sleep.' 

'You  can  understand,  sir,  that  I  was  that 
upset  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  But 
when  he  kep'  on  callin'  and  beseechin'  I 
thought  I'd  better  do  as  Mrs.  Rowe  recom- 
mended. So  I  went  down  and  took  the 
whistle  from  that  nail — the  same  where  you 
see  it  hangin'  now.  When  I  got  back  I 
couldn't  somehow  bring  myself  to  do  it, 
so  I  gives  it  to  'im  to  blow  'isself.  But,  oh 
dear,  to  see  the  poor  thing  trying  to  put  it 
to  his  mouth  ....  it  a'most  broke  my 
heart.  So  I  took  it  from  'im,  and  blowed 
it  myself  three  times  as  he  wanted  me.  To 
think  o*  me  standin'  by  my  own  'usband's 
dyin'-bed  and  blowin'  a  whistle! 

"When  I'd  done,  he  says,  'That's  all  right; 
he  knows  I'm  comin'  now.  But  it'll  take  a 
long  time  to  gather  all  them  sheep.' 

"For  a  bit  he  was  quite  still,  and  both  me 
and  Mrs.  Rowe  sat  watchin',  when,  all  of  a 


180  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

sudden,  he  starts  up  again  and  sez,  *  Listen, 
he's  goin'  to  blow  again/  Well,  sir,  I  dare 
say  you  won't  believe  what  I'm  going  to  tell 
yer,  but  it's  as  true  as  I'm  standin'  'ere.  He'd 
hardly  got  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  when 
I  hears  a  whistle  blown  three  times — least- 
ways I  thought  I  did — as  it  might  be  coming 
from  the  top  of  that  'ill  you  see  over  there. 
There  weren't  no  other  sounds,  for  it  was  as 
still  a  night  as  could  be.  But  there  was 
someone  whistling,  and  Mrs.  Rowe  'card  it 
too.  If  you  don't  believe  me,  you  can  ask 
her.  I  nearly  dropped  on  the  floor,  and  I 
knew  from  that  minute  that  my  'usband  was 
going  to  die. 

;*You  see,  sir,  my  'usband  was  never  what 
you  might  call  a  religious  man.  He  were 
more  of  a  readin'  man,  my  'usband  was — 
papers  and  books  and  all  sorts  o'  things — 
more'n  was  good  for  'im,  I  often  used  to  say. 
You  can  see  a  lot  on  'em  on  that  little  shelf. 
If  it  hadn't  been  that  they  kep'  'im  out  o'  the 
Nag's  Head  I'd  ha'  burned  some  on  'em,  that 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  181 

I  would,  and  I  often  told  'im  so.  He  knowed 
a  wonderful  lot  about  the  stars,  my  'usband 
did.  Why,  he'd  often  sit  in  his  chair  outside 
that  door,  smokin'  his  pipe  and  watchin'  'em 
for  hours  together. 

"  One  day  there  was  a  great  man  came  down 

to  give  a  lecture  on  the  stars  in  C ,  and 

a  gentleman  as  knowed  my  'usband's  tastes 
paid  his  fare  and  gave  'im  a  ticket  for  the 
lecture.  When  he  came  'ome  he  was  that 
excited  I  thought  he'd  go  out  o'  his  mind. 
He  seemed  as  though  he  could  think  of 
nothing  else  for  weeks,  and  it  wasn't  till  he 
began  to  ha'  bad  luck  wi'  the  ewes  as  he  was 
able  to  shake  it  off.  He  was  allus  lookin'  in 
the  paper  to  see  if  the  gentleman  as  give  the 
lecture  was  comin'  again.  His  name  was  Sir 
Robert  Ball.  I  dare  say  you've  heard  on  'im. 

"He  used  to  spend  all  his  Sundays  readin' 
about  stars.  No,  sir,  he  'adn't  been  inside 
the  church  for  years.  'Church  is  for  folks 
as  knows  nowt  about  the  stars,'  he  used  to 
say.  'Sir  Robert  Ball's  my  parson.'  One 
night  when  he  was  sittin'  outside  the  door. 


182  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

I  sez,  'Why  don't  you  come  in  and  get  yer 
supper?  It's  getting  cold/  'Let  it  get  cold,' 
he  sez;  'I'm  not  comin'  in  till  the  moon's  riz. 
It's  as  good  as  a  drop  o'  drink  to  see  it.' 

"P'raps  he  told  yer  all  about  that  time  when 
he  was  took  up  wi'  spiritualism.  He'd  met  a 
man  in  the  public-'ouse  who'd  'card  his  talk 
and  put  'im  up  to  it.  They  got  'im  to  go  to 
a  meetin'  i'  the  next  village,  and  made  'im 
believe  as  he  was  a  medium.  Well,  there 
never  was  such  goin's-on  as  we  'ad  wi'  'im  for 
months.  He'd  sit  up  'alf  the  night,  bumpin* 
the  table  and  tan-rannin'  wi'  an  old  bucket 
till  I  was  a'most  scared  out  o'  my  life.  But 
that  winter  he  was  nearly  carried  off  wi'  the 
New  Mony,  and  when  he  got  better  he  said 
he  wasn't  goin'  to  touch  the  spirits  no  more. 
'There's  summat  in  it,'  he  sez;  'but  there's 
more  in  the  stars.'  And  from  that  day  I  never 
'eard  'im  so  much  as  talk  about  spirits,  and 
you  may  be  sure  I  didn't  remind  'im  on  'em. 

"  You  must  ha'  often  'eard  'im  talk  about  the 
stars,  sir.  Well,  I  suppose  them  things  makes 
no  difference  to  a'  eddicated  gentleman  like 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  183 

you.  But  poor  folks,  I  sez,  has  no  business 
to  meddle  wi'  em.  All  about  worlds  and 
worlds  floatin'  on  nothin'  till  you  got  fair  lost. 
Folks  as  find  them  things  out  ought  to  keep 
'em  quiet,  that's  wot  I  sez.  Why,  I've  'card 
'im  talk  till  I  was  that  mazed  that  I  couldn't 
'a  said  my  prayers;  no,  not  if  I'd  tried  ever  so. 

*  Yes,  sir,  it  were  a  strange  thing  that  when 
my  'usband  come  to  die  his  mind  seemed  to 
hang  on  his  whistle  more'n  a'most  anything 
else.  He  kep'  talkin'  about  it  all  night,  and 
savin'  the  tall  shepherd  was  answerin'  back, 
though  I  never  'card  nothin'  myself,  save  that 
one  time  I  told  yer  of. 

'It's  queer  he  don't  talk  about  the  stars,' 
sez  Mrs.  Rowe  to  me.  'He  will  do  before 
he's  done,  you  see  if  he  doesn't,'  I  sez. 

"Well,  about  three  o'clock  I  see  a  change 
in  his  face  and  knowed  as  the  end  wasn't  far 
off.  So  I  puts  my  arm  round  his  old 
neck,  and  I  sez,  'Bob,  my  dear,  are  you 
prepared  to  meet  your  Maker?'  'Oh!  I'm 
all  right,'  he  sez  quite  sensible;  'don't  you 


184  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

bother  your  head  about  that.'  'Don't  you 
think  you'd  better  let  me  send  for  the 
parson?'  I  sez.  'No,'  he  sez;  'but  you  could 
send  for  Sir  Robert  Ball — if  you  only  knew 
where  to  find  him.'  'But,'  I  sez,  'wouldn't 
you  like  somebody  to  pray  with  yer?  Sir 
Robert  Ball's  no  good  for  that.'  'He's  as 
good  as  anybody  else,'  he  sez.  'Besides 
what's  the  use  of  prayin'  now  ?  It's  all  over.' 
'It  might  do  yer  good,'  I  sez.  'It's  too 
late,"  he  sez,  'and  I  don't  want  it.  It  isn't 
no  Maker  I'm  goin'  to — I'm  goin'  to  the 
stars.'  'Oh,'  I  sez,  'you're  dreamin'  again.' 
'No,  I'm  not'  he  sez.  'Didn't  I  tell  yer 
they'd  been  a-callin'  on  me  all  day?  I  don't 
mean  the  stars,  but  them  as  lives  in  'em.' 

"  No,  sir,  he  wasn't  wanderin'  then.  '  I  wish 
the  children  was  'ere,'  he  sez;  'but  you 
couldn't  get  'em  all  in  this  little  room.  My 
eye,  what  a  lot  we've  'ad!  And  all  livin'. 
And  there's  Tom  got  seven  of  'is  own.'  And 
a  lot  more  like  that;  but  I  was  so  upset  and 
cryin'  that  I  can't  remember  half  on  it. 

"About  four  o'clock  h»  seemed  to  rally  a  bit 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  185 

and  asked  me  to  put  my  arm  round  him  and 
lift  him  up.  So  I  raises  him,  like,  on  the 
pillow  and  gives  him  a  sup  o'  water.  'What 
day  o'  the  week  is  it?'  he  sez.  *  Sunday 
morninY  I  sez.  *  That's  my  day  for  the 
stars,'  he  sez,  and  a  smile  come  over  his  face, 
as  were  beautiful  to  see.  .  .  .  No,  sir,  he 
weren't  a  smilin'  man,  as  a  rule — he  allus 
got  too  much  on  his  mind — and  a  lot  o'  pain 
to  bear  too,  sir.  Oh,  dear  me!  .  .  .  Well, 
as  I  was  a-sayin',  he  were  as  glad  as  glad 
when  he  heard  it  were  Sunday.  'What's 
o'clock  ?'  he  sez.  '  Just  struck  four  by  the 
church  clock,'  I  sez.  'Then  the  dawn  must 
be  breakin','  he  sez;  'look  out  o'  the  winder, 
there's  a  good  lass,  and  tell  me  if  the  sky's 
clear,  and  if  you  can  see  the  mornin'  star  in 
the  south-east.'  So  I  goes  to  the  winder  and 
tells  him  as  how  the  sky  were  clear  and  the 
mornin'  star  shinin'  wonderful.  'Ah,  she's  a 
beauty,'  he  sez,  'and  as  bright  as  she  were 
milions  o'  years  ago!' 

"After  a  bit  he  sez,   'Take  yer  arm  off, 
Polly,  and  lay  me  on  my  right  side.'     When 


186  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

me  and  Mrs.  Rowe  'ad  turned  'im  round  he 
sez,  'You  can  fetch  the  old  Bible  and  read  a 
bit  if  you  like.'  'What  shall  I  read?'  I 
sez,  when  Mrs,  Rowe  had  fetched  it,  for  I 
wouldn't  leave  'im  for  a  minute.  'Read 
about  the  Woman  in  Adultery,'  he  sez.  'Oh,' 
I  sez,  'that'll  do  you  no  good.  You  don't 
want  to  'ear  about  them  things  now.'  'Yes,' 
he  sez,  'I  do.  It's  the  best  bit  in  the  book. 
But  if  you  can't  find  it,  the  Box  o'  Hointment'll 
do  as  well.'  'What  can  he  mean?'  I  sez. 
'  He  means  about  them  two  women  as  come  to 
our  Lord,'  sez  Mrs,  Rowe.  ''Ere,  I'll  find 
'em.'  So  I  give  the  Bible  to  Mrs.  Rowe  and 
lets  her  read  both  of  the  bits  he  wanted. 

"While  Mrs.  Rowe  was  readin'  he  lay  as 
still  as  still,  but  his  eyes  were  that  bright  it 
a'most  scared  me  to  see  'em.  When  she'd 
done,  he  said  never  a  word,  but  lay  on  'is 
side,  wi'  'is  'ead  turned  a  bit  round,  starin' 
at  the  window.  'I'm  sure  he  sees  summat,' 
sez  Mrs.  Rowe  to  me.  'I  wonder  wot  it  is,' 
I  sez.  'P'raps  it's  our  Lord  come  to  fetch 
'im,'  she  sez.  Tve  'card  o'  such  things.' 


THE  DEATH  OF  SNARLEY  BOB  187 

"He  must  ha'  lay  like  that  for  ten  minutes, 
breathin'  big  breaths  as  though  he  were  goin' 
to  sleep.  Then  I  sees  'is  lips  movin',  and  I 
'ad  to  bend  my  'ead  down  to  'ear  what  he  were 
sayin*.  'He's  a-blowin'  again.  It's  the  tall 
shepherd — 'im  as  wrote  on  the  ground — and 
he's  got  no  dog,  and  'is  sheep's  scatterin'. 
It's  me  he  wants.  Fetch  the  old  whistle, 
Polly,  and  blow  back.  I  want  'im  to  know 
I'm  comin'.' 

"He  kep'  repeatin'  it,  till  'is  breath  went.  I 
got  Mrs.  Rowe  to  blow  the  whistle,  but  he 
didn't  'ear  it,  and  it  made  no  difference.  And 
so,  poor  thing,  he  just  gave  one  big  sigh  and 
he  were  gone." 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S 
TALL  HAT 

IT  was  winter,  and  Farmer  Ferryman  and  I 
were  seated  in  straight-backed  arm-chairs  on 
either  side  of  his  kitchen  fire.  The  prosperity 
attendant  on  the  labours  of  Snarley  Bob  had 
already  begun:  the  house  was  roomy  and 
well  furnished;  there  was  a  parlour  and  a 
drawing-room;  but  Ferryman,  when  the  day's 
work  was  done,  preferred  the  kitchen.  And 
so  did  I. 

Though  evening  had  fallen,  the  lamp  was 
not  yet  lit;  but  the  flames  of  a  wood  fire  gave 
light  enough  for  conversational  purposes,  and 
imparted  to  the  flitches  and  hams  suspended 
from  the  ceiling  a  lively  reality  which  neither 
daylight  nor  petroleum  could  ever  produce. 
As  the  shadows  danced  among  them,  the 

188 


FARMER   FERRYMAN'S   TALL   HAT  189 

kitchen  became  peopled  with  friendly  pre- 
sences; a  new  fragrance  pervaded  the  place, 
bearing  a  hint  of  good  things  to  come.  No 
wonder  that  Ferryman  loved  the  spot. 

To-night,  however,  there  was  another  object 
in  the  room,  of  so  alien  a  nature  that  any  self- 
respecting  ham  or  flitch,  had  it  possessed  a 
reasonable  soul,  would  have  been  sorely 
tempted  to  "heave  half  a  brick"  at  the 
intruder.  This  object  stood  gleaming  on  a 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It  was  a 
bran-new  and  brilliantly  polished  tall  hat. 

"No,"  said  Farmer  Ferryman,  "it's  not  for 
Sundays.  It's  for  a  weddin'!  You'll  never 
see  me  wearing  a  box-hat  on  Sundays  again. 
Will  he,  missis?"  (Mrs.  Ferryman  said,  "I 
don't  expect  he  will.")  "No  sir,  not  again! 
Not  that  I  don't  mean  to  go  to  church  regular. 
I've  done  that  all  my  life. 

"Yes,  you're  quite  right.  Folks  in  the 
villages  don't  go  to  church  as  they  used  to  do 
when  I  was  a  young  man,  and  I'm  sorry  to  see 
it.  Folks  nowadays  seems  to  have  forgotten 
as  they've  got  to  die.  Besides,  it's  not  good 


190  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

for  farmin'.  Show  me  any  parish  in  the 
county  where  there's  first-class  farmin',  and 
I'll  bet  you  three  to  one  there's  a  good  con- 
gregation in  the  church. 

"What's  driven  'em  away,  did  you  say? 
Well,  if  you  want  my  opinion,  it's  my  belief 
as  this  'ere  Church  Restoration  has  as  much  to 
do  wi'  it  as  anything  else.  There's  been  a  lot 
o'  new  doctrine,  it's  true,  and  all  this  'ere  'Igh 
Churchism,  as  I  could  never  make  head  nor 
tail  of;  and  that,  no  doubt,  has  offended  some 
o'  the  old-fashioned  folk  like  me.  But  it's 
when  they  starts  restoring  the  old  churches, 
and  makin'  'em  all  spick  and  span,  that  the 
religious  feelin'  seems  to  die  out  on  'em,  and 
folks  begins  to  stop  goin'.  You  might  as 
well  be  in  a  concert  hall — the  place  full  o' 
chairs  and  smellin'  o'  varnish  enough  to  make 
you  sick,  and  a  lot  o'  lads  in  the  chancel 
dressed  up  in  white  gowns,  and  suckin'  sweets, 
and  chuckin'  paper  pellets  at  one  another  all 
through  the  sermon.  That's  not  what  /  call 
religion ! 

"I've  often  told  our  parson  as  it  were  the 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  191 

worst  day's  work  he  ever  did  when  he  had 
our  church  restored.  And  a  lot  o'  money 
it  cost,  too;  but  not  a  penny  would  I  give, 
and  I  told  'em  I  wouldn't — no,  not  if  they'd 
gone  down  on  their  bended  knees.  From 
that  day  to  this  our  church  has  never  smelt 
right — never  smelt  as  a  church  ought  to  smell. 
You  know  the  smell  of  a'  old  church  ?  Well, 
I  don't  know  what  makes  it;  but  there  it 
is,  and  when  you've  said  your  prayers  to  it 
for  forty  years  you  can't  say  'em  to  no  other. 

"I  can  remember  what  a  turn  it  gave  me 
that  Sunday  when  the  Bishop  came  down  to 
open  the  church  after  it  had  been  restored. 
The  old  smell  clean  gone,  and  what  was  worse 
a  new  smell  come!  'Mr.  Abel,'  I  says,  *I  can 
put  up  wi'  a  bit  of  new  doctrine,  and  I  don't 
mind  a  pinch  or  two  o'  ceremony;  but  I  can't 
abide  these  'ere  new  smells,'  'I'll  never  be 
able  to  keep  on  comin','  I  says  to  Charley 
Shott.  'Nor  me,  neither,'  he  says.  "I'll  go 
to  church  in  another  parish,'  I  says  to  my 
missis,  'for  danged  if  you'll  ever  see  me  goin' 
inside  a  chapel.' 


192  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"So  I  went  next  Sunday  to  Holliton,  and— 
would  you  believe  me  ? — it  had  a  new  smell, 
worse,  if  anything,  than  ours.  There  was 
a*  old  man  in  a  black  gown,  and  a  long 
stick  in  his  hand,  walkin'  up  and  down  the 
aisle.  So  I  says  to  him,  'What's  up  with 
this  'ere  church  ?  Has  them  candles  on  the 
altar  been  smokin'?'  'No,'  he  says,  'not  as 
I  know  on.'  'Well,'  I  says,  sniffin'  like, 
'there's  a  very  queer  smell  in  the  place.  It's 
not  'ealthy.  Summat  ought  to  be  done  to  it 
at  once.'  'Hush!'  he  says,  'what  you  smells 
is  the  incense.'  And  then  the  Holliton 
clergyman!  Well — I  couldn't  stand  him  at 
no  price — a  great,  big,  fat  feller  wi'  no  more 
religion  in  him  than  a  cow — and  not  more'n 
six  people  in  the  church.  'Not  for  me,'  I 
says,  'not  after  Mr.  Abel.' 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do,  when  one 
day  I  sees  Charley  Shott  comin'  out  o'  our 
churchyard.  'Sam,'  he  says,  'I've  just  been 
sniffin'  round  inside  the  church,  and  there 
she  is,  all  alive  and  kickin'!'  'What's  all 
alive  and  kickin'?'  I  says.  'The  old  smell,' 


FARMER   FERRYMAN'S   TALL   HAT  193 

says  he;  'come  inside,  and  I'll  show  you 
where  she  is.'  So  I  follows  Charley  Shott 
into  the  church,  and  he  takes  me  round  to 
where  the  old  tomb  it,  in  the  north  transep'. 
'Now,'  he  says,  'take  a  whiff  o'  that,  Sam.' 
'Charley,'  I  says,  'it's  the  right  smell  sure 
enough;  and  if  only  she  won't  wear  off,  I'll 
sit  in  this  corner  to  the  end  o'  my  days.' 
'She's  not  likely  to  wear  off,'  he  says;  'she 
comes  from  the  old  tomb.  It's  a  mixture 
o'  damp  and  dust.  Now,  the  damp's  all 
right,  because  the  heatin'  pipes  don't  come 
round  here;  and,  besides,  the  sun  never  gets 
into  this  corner.  And  as  to  the  dust,  you 
just  take  your  pocket-handkerchief  and  give 
a  flick  or  two  round  the  bottom  o'  the  tomb. 
That'll  freshen  her  up  any  time.' 

"Well,  you  may  laugh;  but  I  tell  you  it's 
as  true  as  I'm  sittin'  here.  I  allus  goes  to 
church  in  good  time,  and  if  my  corner  don't 
smell  true,  I  just  dusts  her  up  a  bit,  and  then 
she's  as  right  as  a  trivet." 

"But,"  I  said,  "you  were  going  to  tell  me 
about  the  tall  hat." 

13 


194  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"Ha,  so  I  was,"  replied  Ferryman;  "but 
the  hat  made  me  think  o'  the  church,  and 
that  put  me  off.  Well,  it's  no  doin'  o'  mine 
that  you  see  that  hat  where  it  is  to-night.  If 
I  had  my  way  it  'ud  be  in  the  place  where 
it  came  from,  and  fifteen  shillin's  that's  in 
another  place  'ud  be  in  my  pocket.  I'm  not 
used  to  'em,  and  what's  more  I  never  shall 
be.  But  a  weddin's  a  weddin',  and  your 
niece  is  your  niece,  and  when  your  missis  says 
you've  got  to  wear  one — why,  what's  the  use 
o'  sayin'  you  won't?  However,  that's  not 
the  first  tall  hat  as  I've  worn." 

"Tell  me  about  the  others,"  I  said. 

"There  was  only  one  other,  and  that  other 
was  one  'other'  too  many  for  me,"  replied  the 
farmer.  "It's  seven  years  come  next  hay 
harvest  since  my  wife  come  into  a  bit  of 
money  as  had  been  left  her  by  her  aunt. 
'Sana,'  she  says  to  me,  'we  got  a  rise,  and  we 
must  act  up  to  it.'  'Right  you  are,'  I  says; 
'but  how  are  you  goin'  to  start?'  'Well,' 
she  says,  'the  first  thing  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
leave  off  wearing  billy-cocks  on  Sundays  and 


FARMER   FERRYMAN'S   TALL   HAT  195 

buy  a  box-hat.'  *  Polished  'ats,'  I  says,  'is  for 
polished  'eads,  and  mine  was  ordered  plain.' 
'If  there's  no  polish  on  your  'ead,'  says  she, 
'that's  a  reason  for  having  some  on  your  'at.' 
"Well,  we  had  a  bit  more  chaff,  and  the 
end  of  it  was  that  I  promised  to  buy  one, 
though,  between  you  and  me,  I  never  meant 
to.  However,  when  market-day  come  round, 
she  would  go  with  me,  and  never  a  bit  of  peace 
did  she  give  me  till  she'd  driven  me  into  a 
shop  and  made  me  buy  the  hat.  'I've  bought 
it,  Sally,'  I  said ;  '  but  you'll  never  see  me  wear 
it.'  'Oh  yes,  I  shall,'  she  says;  'you're  not 
nearly  such  a  fool  as  you  try  to  make  yourself 
out.'  Well,  I  went  home  that  day  just  as 
mad  as  mad.  If  there's  one  thing  in  this 
world  as  upsets  me  it's  spending  money  on 
things  I  don't  want.  And  there  was  twelve- 
and-sixpence  gone  on  a  box-hat!  If  Sally 
hadn't  kept  hold  on  it  I'd  ha'  kicked  the  whole 
thing  half  a  mile  further  than  the  middle  of 
next  week.  'I'll  get  that  twelve-and-sixpence 
back  somehow,'  I  said  to  myself;  'you  see  if 
I  don't.  It's  the  Church  that  made  me  spend 


196  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

it,  and  the  Church  shall  pay  me  back.  If  I 
didn't  go  to  church  I  shouldn't  have  bought 
that  hat.  All  right,  Mr.  Church,'  I  said,  as 
I  drove  by  it,  shakin'  my  fist  at  the  steeple, 
'I'll  be  even  with  you  yet';  and  I  shouted  it 
out  loud." 

"I  should  have  thought  your  wife  had 
more  to  do  with  it  than  the  Church,"  I  in- 
terposed. 

"Of  course  she  had — in  a  plain  sense  o' 
speakin',"  said  the  farmer.  "But  then  your 
wife's  your  wife,  especially  when  she's  a  good 
'un,  and  the  Church  is  the  Church.  Some 
men  might  ha'  rounded  on  Sally;  but  I  told 
her  before  we  were  married  that  the  first  bad 
word  I  gave  her  would  be  the  answer  to  one 
she  gave  me.  That's  eight-and-twenty  year 
ago,  and  we  haven't  begun  yet.  But  where 
was  I  ?  Oh,  I  was  tellin'  you  what  I  said  to 
the  church.  You  can  guess  what  a  rage 
I  was  in  from  my  gettin'  such  a'  idea  into 
my  'ead." 

"No  other  reason?"  I  asked. 

"Not  a  drop,"  replied  Ferryman;    "for  I 


FARMER   FERRYMAN'S   TALL   HAT  197 

suppose  that's  what  you  mean.  No,  sir,  I 
give  it  up  once  and  for  all  ever  since  that 
time  when  Mrs.  Abel  followed  me  to  Craw- 
ley  Races.  Ay,  and  the  best  day's  work  she 
ever  did — and  that's  savin'  a  good  deal,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  can  see  her  just  as  she  was.  She 
were  drivin'  a  little  blood-mare  as  she'd  bought 
o'  me — one  as  I'd  bred  myself — for  I  were 
more  in  'osses  than  sheep  in  them  days — and 
Mrs.  Abel  were  allus  a  lady  as  knowed  a  good 
'oss  when  she  see  it.  And  there  was  Snarley 
Bob,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  sittin'  on  the  seat 
behind.  She'd  got  a  little  blue  bonnet  on,  as 
suited  her  to  a  T,  and  were  lookin'  like  a " 

"Tell  him  about  that  some  other  time," 
said  Mrs.  Ferryman;  "if  you  go  on  at  this  rate 
you'll  never  get  finished  with  the  story  about 
your  hat." 

"Hats  isn't  everything,"  said  the  farmer; 
"but  if  hats  is  what  you  want  to  hear  about, 
hats  is  what  I'll  talk  on." 

Mrs.  Ferryman  looked  at  me  with  a  glance 
which  seemed  to  say  that,  even  though  hats 
weren't  everything,  we  had  better  stick  to 


198  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

them  on  the  present  occasion.  I  interpreted 
the  glance  by  saying  to  the  farmer,  "Go  on 
about  the  hat.  We  can  have  the  other  next 
time."  Mrs.  Ferryman  seemed  relieved,  and 
her  husband  continued: 

"Well,  next  mornin'  bein'  Sunday,  the 
missis  managed  to  get  her  way,  and  off  we 
sails  to  church — she  in  a  silk  dress,  and  me  in 
a  box-hat.  We  was  twenty  minutes  before 
time,  for  I  didn't  want  people  to  see  us;  but, 
just  as  we  were  crossing  the  churchyard,  who 
should  we  meet  but  the  parson  and  his  lady  ? 
Know  our  parson?  You're  right:  he's  not 
only  good,  but  good  all  through,  fat,  lean, 
and  streaky.  That's  what  he  is,  and  you  can 
take  my  word  for  it.  Know  his  lady  ?  No  ?" 
(I  was  a  new-comer  in  those  days.)  "Well, 
you  ought  to:  she'd  make  you  laugh  till  you 
choked,  and  next  minute  she'd  make  you  cry. 
Mischievous?  Why,  if  I  should  tell  you  the 
tricks  she's  played  on  people  you  wouldn't 
believe  'em.  Ever  hear  what  she  did  when 
the  Squire's  son  come  of  age  ?  Or  about  her 
dressing  up  at  the  Queen's  Jubilee  ?  No  ? 


FARMER   FERRYMAN'S   TALL   HAT  199 

Well,  I'll  tell  you  that  another  time.  Oh,  she's 
a  treat — a  real  treat!"  (Here  Farmer  Ferry- 
man broke  forth  into  mighty  laughter  and 
banged  his  fist  on  the  table  with  such  vigour 
that  Tall  Hat  the  Second  leaped  into  the  air.) 
"Why  doesn't  Parson  keep  her  under,  did 
you  say?"  he  continued.  "Bless  yer  heart, 
he  doesn't  want  to.  She  never  harmed  a 
living  soul.  Why,  the  good  she's  done  to 
this  parish  couldn't  be  told.  It'll  take  the 
whole  of  the  Judgment  Day  to  get  through 
it,  and  then  they  won't  ha'  done — that's  what 
folks  says.  Popular?  I  should  think  she 
was!  There  isn't  a  poor  man  or  woman  in  the 
village  as  doesn't  worship  the  soles  of  her 
boots.  And  there's  not  many,  rich  or  poor, 
as  she  hasn't  made  fools  of — yes,  and  more 
than  once.  They  ought  to  write  a  book  about 
her.  It's  a  shame  they  don't.  My  eye,  if 
she'd  been  Queen  of  England  she'd  ha'  made 
things  jump!  As  for  finding  things  out,  she's 
got  a  nose  like  that  little  terrier  bitch  o'  mine. 
'Pon  my  word,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  she 
knows  that  you're  sittin'  in  that  chair  at  this 


200  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

minute.  You  mayn't  believe  me,  but  I  tell 
you  she's  capable  of  more  than  that. 

'Yes,  yes,  she's  gettin'  an  old  woman  now. 
I  remember  the  day  as  Parson  brought  her 
home — a  quiet-looking  little  thing,  with  a 
face  like  a  tame  rabbit — you  wouldn't  ha' 
thought  she  could  'a  bitten  a  hole  in  the 
cheek  of  a'  apple.  Some  say  she  was  a' 
actress  before  he  married  her;  she's  clever 
enough  for  twenty  actresses,  and  she's  better 
than  twenty  thousand." 

"Those  are  impressive  figures,"  I  said,  not 
a  little  puzzled  by  the  sum  in  moral  arithmetic 
which  the  farmer's  enthusiasm  had  pro- 
pounded. "Why,  she  must  be  a  perfect 
saint." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  my  mouth 
when  Mr.  Ferryman  rose  from  his  chair  like 
a  man  in  wrath.  Inadvertently  I  had  used 
an  expression  which  acted  like  a  spark  upon 
gunpowder.  Intending  to  praise  his  idol,  I 
had  for  some  obscure  reason  wounded  the 
passionate  old  man  in  the  most  sensitive  nerve 
of  his  being.  I  sat  amazed,  not  understanding 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  201 

what  I  had  done,  and  even  now  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  understand  it  wholly.  But  this  is 
what  happened.  Standing  over  me  with 
fierce  gesticulations,  Mr.  Ferryman  poured  out 
a  fury  of  words,  only  fragments  of  which  I 
can  now  recall. 

"Perfect  saint!"  he  shouted.  "Do  you 
know  who  it  is  you're  talking  about?  No, 
you  don't,  or  you'd  never  have  said  such  a 
word!  Look  here,  mister,  let  me  tell  yer 
this:  you're  on  the  wrong  side  of  your  'osses 
this  time!  She's  no  more  a  saint  than  /  am; 
if  she  had  been,  do  you  think  she  could  ha' 
done  the  best  thing  she  ever  did?" 

"Great  heavens!"  I  thought,  "what  can  he 
mean  ? — I'm  sorry  you're  hurt,"  I  said  aloud. 
"I  meant  no  offence.  Only  you  said  just 
now  she  was  as  good  as  twenty  thousand ' 

"Actresses,"  broke  in  the  farmer.  "I  said 
twenty  thousand  actresses — not  twenty  thou- 
sand lambs." 

"Oh,  well,"  I  replied,  "of  course,  there's  a 
great  difference  between  the  two  things,  and 
I  was  stupid  not  to  think  of  it  before.  What- 


202  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

ever  she  may  be,  it's  plain  you  admire  her, 
and  that's  enough."  I  was  anxious  to  break 
the  current  of  Mr.  Ferryman's  thoughts,  and 
recover  the  history  of  the  Tall  Hat,  the  thread 
of  which  had  been  so  unexpectedly  snapped. 

"Admire  her!"  cried  the  old  man,  who  was 
evidently  not  to  be  put  off.  "And  why 
shouldn't  I  ?  Who  was  it  that  dug  Sam 
Ferryman  out  of  the  mud  when  he  was  buried 
in  it  up  to  his  neck — yes,  and  got  half 
smothered  with  mud  herself  in  doing  it? 
But  do  you  think  she  cared?  Not  she! 
Snapped  her  fingers  in  the  face  of  half  the 
county,  that  she  did,  and  what's  more  she 
gave  some  of  'em  a  taste  of  the  whip  as  they 
won't  forget!  Now  listen,  and  I'll  tell  you 
something  that'll  make  your  hair  curl." 

I  swiftly  resolved  not  to  listen,  for  the 
farmer  was  beside  himself  with  excitement 
and  not  responsible  for  what  he  was  doing. 
I  saw  that  I  was  about  to  discover  what  I 
was  never  intended  to  know.  Dim  recollec- 
tions came  to  my  mind  of  a  grotesque  but 
terrible  story,  known  to  not  more  than  four 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  203 

living  souls,  the  names  and  personalities  in 
which  had  for  good  reasons  been  carefully 
concealed  from  me  and  from  others.  That 
Farmer  Ferryman  was  one  actor  in  that 
tragedy,  and  that  Mrs.  Abel  was  another,  had 
been  already  revealed  past  recalling.  More 
than  this  it  was  unseemly  that  I  should  hear. 

The  figure  of  the  old  man,  as  he  stood 
before  me  then,  is  one  of  those  images  that 
cannot  be  effaced.  His  voice  was  broken,  his 
lips  were  parted  and  quivering,  his  form  rigid 
but  unsteady,  and  the  furrows  on  his  brow 
ran  into  and  crossed  one  another  like  the 
lines  on  a  tragic  mask.  He  was  about  to 
proceed,  and  I  to  protest  against  his  doing  so, 
when  an  incident  occurred  which  relieved  the 
tension  and  gave  a  new  turn  to  the  course  of 
events. 

Mrs.  Ferryman,  who  had  left  the  room  when 
the  farmer  resumed  the  history  of  the  Tall 
Hat,  though  not  to  go  beyond  the  reach  of 
hearing,  now  emerged  from  the  shadows  and 
said  in  a  quiet  voice,  "Sam,  stop  talking  a 
minute,  and  attend  to  business.  Snarley  Bob's 


204  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

at  the  back  door,  and  wants  to  know  if  you're 
going  to  keep  him  waiting  all  night.  He  come 
for  his  wages  at  five  o'clock,  and  it's  struck 
six  some  time  ago." 

"Give  him  a  mug  o'  ale,  and  tell  him  to  go 
home,"  said  Sam. 

"I've  given  him  two  mugs  already,  and  he 
says  he  must  see  you  afore  he  goes." 

"Wait  where  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Ferryman 
to  me,  "and  I'll  be  back  in  half  a  shake." 

The  Perrymans  withdrew  together,  leaving 
me  alone.  I  listened  to  the  voices  in  the  next 
room  and  could  distinguish  those  of  the  farmer 
and  his  wife,  urgent  but  subdued.  I  could 
not  hear  the  voice  of  Snarley  Bob.  Then  I 
drew  conclusions,  and  searched  in  the  recesses 
of  my  memory  for  a  forgotten  clue.  Gazing 
into  the  fire,  I  saw  three  separate  strands  of 
smoke  roll  themselves  into  a  single  column, 
and  rush  upwards  into  the  darkness  of  the 
chimney.  The  thing  acted  as  a  stimulus  to 
recollection,  for  it  spoke  of  three  human  lives 
flowing  onwards  to  the  Unknown  in  a  single 
stream  of  destiny:  Mrs.  Abel,  Farmer  Perry- 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  205 

man,  Snarley  Bob — and  further  articulations 
would  have  followed  had  not  the  re-entry  of 
the  Perrymans  disturbed  the  process  and 
plunged  it  back  beneath  the  threshold  of 
consciousness.  The  farmer's  wife  sat  down 
between  us,  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"I  want  to  hear  him  finish  the  story  of  the 
Tall  Hat,"  she  said.  "With  me  by  he's  less 
likely  to  put  the  frilling  on." 

"Let's  see — where  was  I?"  said  Ferryman. 
*  You'd  come  to  the  place  where  you  met 
the  parson  and  his  lady  in  the  churchyard," 
I  said. 

"Ha,  so  I  had,"  replied  the  farmer.  "I 
can  see  her  at  this  very  minute  just  as  she  was. 
She  looked " 

"Never  mind  what  she  looked  like:  tell  us 
what  she  said"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ferryman. 

"She  says,  'Good-morning,  Mr.  Ferryman. 
How  much?' — looking  'ard  at  my  'at  all 
the  time.  I  guessed  she  was  up  to  some 
devilry,  so  I  thought  I  would  put  her  wrong 
a  bit.  'A  guinea,  ma'am,'  says  I.  She 
looks  at  my  'at  again  and  says, '  Mr.  Ferryman, 


206  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

you've  been  took  in.  Twelve-and-six  would 
have  been  more  than  enough  for  that  'at/ 
'Oh,'  says  I  to  myself,  *  you've  been  nosing 
round  already,  'ave  you?'  I  suppose  I  must 
have  looked  a  bit  foolish  like — I'm  sure  I  felt 
it, — but  she  didn't  give  me  no  time  to  speak. 
'Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  that  guinea  back 
in  your  pocket?'  says  she,  putting  a  funny 
sound  on  the  'guinea.'  'Yes,'  I  says;  'and, 
what's  more,  I  mean  to  get  it  back.'  'Oh 
indeed,'  says  she,  and  a  look  come  into  her 
face  as  though  she  was  putting  two  and  two 
together.  After  a  bit  she  says, '  Mr.  Ferryman, 
was  that  your  trap  that  drove  by  about  half- 
past  seven  last  night?'  'Yes,'  I  says;  and  I 
might  have  known  from  that  minute  she  was 
going  to  do  a  down  on  me. 

"However,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  how  I 
was  goin'  to  get  that  money  back,  and  I  wasn't 
goin'  to  change  for  nobody.  You  must  under- 
stand there's  a  weekly  offertory  in  our  church. 
There  was  a  lot  of  objection  when  Parson 
started  it  years  ago.  But,  you  see,  he's  always 
been  a  bit  'Igh."  ("Much  too  High  for  me," 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  207 

here  interposed  Mrs.  Ferryman.)  'Yes,  I've 
warned  him  about  it  several  times.  'Mr. 
Abel,'  I  says  to  him,  'you're  'Igh  enough 
already.  Now,  you  take  my  advice,  and 
don't  you  get  no  'Igher.'  That  was  when  he 
started  the  offertory. 

"Well,  I'm  the  sort  of  man  that  when  I 
gives,  I  gives.  Ever  since  the  offertory  was 
begun  my  missis  puts  a  two-shillin'  piece  into 
the  waistcoat-pocket  of  my  Sunday  suit — don't 
you,  Sally?"  (Sally  nodded) — "  regular  every 
Monday  morning  when  she  brushes  my  clothes, 
so  there's  no  doubt  about  its  being  there 
when  Sunday  comes.  That's  for  collection. 

"And  now  you  can  understand  my  plan. 
I'd  made  up  to  give  one  shillin'  instead  o' 
two,  Sunday  by  Sunday,  till  I'd  paid  for  my 
new  box-hat.  That's  how  I  was  goin'  to  get 
even  with  the  Church. 

"I  kep*  it  up  regular  for  twelve  weeks, 
counting  'em  off  one  by  one.  I  didn't  bother 
about  the  sixpence.  Meanwhile  two  or  three 
other  farmers,  not  wanting  to  be  put  in  the 
shade  by  me — or  more  likely  it  was  their 


208  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

missises — had  begun  to  wear  box-hats  o' 
Sunday.  There  was  Tom  Henderson,  who's 
no  more  fit  to  wear  a  box-hat  than  his  bull  is; 
and  there  was  old  Charley  Shott — know  him  ? 
— a  man  with  a  wonderful  appetite  for  pig- 
meat  is  old  Charley  Shott.  It  would  ha' 
made  you  die  o'  laughin'  to  see  old  Charley 
come  shufflin'  up  the  church  just  like  this" 
(here  the  farmer  executed  an  imitative  pas 
seul),  "sit  down  in  his  seat,  and  say  his 
prayers  into  his  box-hat  same  as  I'm  doing 
now."  (He  took  Tall  Hat  the  Second  from 
the  table,  and  poured — or  rather  puffed— 
an  imaginary  petition  into  its  interior.) 

"Now,  listen  to  what  happened  next.  The 
very  day  after  I'd  put  the  last  shillin'  into  the 
plate — that  was  three  months,  you  must  re- 
member, after  I'd  bought  the  'at — up  comes  a 
note  from  the  cook  at  the  Rectory,  saying  as 
the  weekly  order  for  butter  was  to  be  reduced 
from  six  pounds  to  five.  'I  suppose  it's 
because  Master  Norman's  goin'  to  boarding 
school,'  I  says  to  the  missis.  'Not  it,'  says 
she,  'one  mouth  more  or  less  don't  make  no 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT  209 

difference  in  a  big  household  like  that.  Be- 
sides, they're  not  the  people  to  cut  it  fine/ 
'I  wonder  what  it  means,'  I  says.  But  I 
hadn't  long  to  wait.  About  a  fortnight  later 
I  met  old  Charley  Shott  and  says  to  him, 
jokin'  like,  'Well,  Charley,  how  much  did  you 
pay  for  your  Sunday  box-hat?'  'Cost  me 
nothing,'  said  Charley  laughin'.  'I've  run 
up  a  little  bill  against  his  Reverence  for  that 
'at.  And,  what's  more,  I've  made  him  pay  it! 
By  the  way,'  says  he,  'what's  become  o'  their 
appetites  down  at  the  Rectory?  We've  just 
received  warnin'  as  no  more  poultry'll  be 
wanted  till  further  orders.'  'I  don't  know,' 
says  I;  but  it  was  a  lie,  for  it  come  over  me 
in  a  flash  what  it  all  meant.  Even  then,  how- 
ever, I  wasn't  quite  sure. 

"However,  it  was  twenty-one  weeks  before  I 
got  the  final  clearing-up.  Thirty-three  weeks 
to  the  very  day,  reckoning  from  the  Saturday 
which  I  bought  the  'at,  comes  another  message 
from  the  Rectory:  'Please  send  six  pounds  of 
butter  as  before.' 

"Next  day  I  went  to  church  as  usual.     No 

14 


210  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

sooner  did  Mr.  Abel  give  out  his  text  than 
I  saw  it  all,  plain  as  daylight.  The  text  was 
something  about  *  robbery  of  God.'  There 
was  not  a  thing  I've  told  you  about  the 
'at  that  was  not  put  into  that  sermon.  Of 
course,  it  was  roundabout — all  about  pearls 
and  precious  stones  and  such  like;  but  it  was 
my  box-hat  he  was  driving  at  all  the  time. 
It  was  Solomon  mostly  as  he  talked  about; 
but  I  nearly  jumped  out  of  my  seat  when  he 
made  Solomon  shake  his  fist  at  the  'Oly 
Temple  on  Mount  Zion  and  say  almost  the 
very  words  as  I  said  as  I  drove  by  the  church 
that  Saturday  night.  First  he  went  for  me, 
and  then  he  went  for  Charley  Shott,  and  I 
can  tell  you  that  he  twisted  the  tails  of  both 
on  us  to  a  pretty  tune!  Says  I  to  myself, 
'Don't  I  know  who's  put  you  up  to  preaching 
that  sermon  ? '  And  more  than  seven  months 
gone  since  it  happened!  Think  of  that  for  a 
memory!  And  she  sitting  in  her  pew  with  a 
face  as  smooth  as  a  dish  o'  cream. 

"Well,  I  was  churchwarden  that  year,  and 
of  course  had  to  take  the  plate  round.     When 


FARMER  FERRYMAN'S  TALL  HAT 

I  comes  to  the  Rector's  pew  I  see  Mrs.  Abel 
openin'  a  little  purse.  First  she  takes  out  a 
sovereign,  and  then  a  shilling,  and  says  to  me, 
quite  clear,  as  she  dropped  'em  into  the  plate, 
'All  right,  Mr.  Church,  I'll  be  even  with 
you  yet!  And  here's  another  two  pounds  fif- 
teen. You  can  tell  Charley  Shott  and  Tom 
Henderson,  and  all  the  lot  on  'em,  as  they've 
paid  for  their  Sunday  'ats.  And  give  'em  all 
my  kind  regards.'  Then  she  counts  the  money 
out  as  deliberate  as  if  she  were  payin'  the 
cook's  wages,  and  drops  it  into  the  plate  wi'  a 
clatter  as  could  be  heard  all  over  the  church. 
She  must  ha'  kep'  me  waitin'  full  two  minutes, 
all  the  congregation  starin'  and  wonderin' 
what  was  up,  and  me  lookin'  like  a  silly  calf. 
"When  I  come  out  of  church  my  wife  says 
to  me,  *Sam,  what's  that  you  and  Mrs.  Abel 
was  whispering  about?'  'You  mind  your 
own  business,'  I  says,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  we  were  married  we  was  very  near 
coming  to  words." 


A   GRAVEDIGGER  SCENE 

IT  was  Sunday  evening,  and  the  congregation 
had  dispersed.  I  was  making  my  way  into 
the  church  to  take  a  last  look  at  a  famous 
fourteenth-century  tomb.  Not  a  soul  was 
visible;  but  the  sound  of  a  pick  and  the  sight 
of  fresh  earth  announced  that  the  sexton  was 
at  work  digging  a  grave.  I  walked  to  the 
spot.  A  bald  head,  the  shining  top  of  which 
was  now  level  with  the  surface  of  the  ground, 
raised  the  hope  that  he  would  prove  to  be  a 
sexton  of  the  old  school.  I  was  not  dis- 
appointed. 

"Good  evening,"  I  said. 

"A  good  evening  to  you,  sir,"  said  the 
sexton,  pausing  in  his  work  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  welcomed  an  excuse  to  rest. 

212 


A   GRAVEDIGGER   SCENE  213 

"And  whose  grave  is  that  you're  digging?" 
I  asked. 

"Old  Sally  Bloxham— mother  to  Tom 
Bloxham — him  as  keeps  the  'Spotted  Pig.' 
And  a  bad  job  for  him  as  she's  gone.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  old  Sally  he'd  ha'  drunk  hisself 
to  death  long  ago.  And  who  may  you  be?" 
he  asked,  as  though  realising  that  this  sudden 
burst  of  confidential  information  was  some- 
what rash. 

"Oh,  I'm  nobody  in  particular.  Just  pass- 
ing through  and  taking  a  look  around." 

"Ah!  there's  lots  as  comes  lookin  round, 
nowadays.  More  than  there  used  to  be. 
Why,  bless  your  life,  I  remember  the  time 
when  you  nivver  seed  a  soul  in  this  village 
except  the  home-dwellers.  And  now  there's 
bicycles  and  motor  cars  almost  every  day. 
Most  on  'em  just  pokes  their  noses  round,  and 
then  off  they  goes.  Some  wants  to  see  the 
tomb  inside,  and  then  there's  a  big  stone  over 
an  old  doorway  at  the  back  o'  the  church, 
what  they  calls  '  'Arrowing  o'  'Ell,'  though  / 
don't  know  what  it  means.  You've  'card  on 


MAD    SHEPHERDS 

it?  Well,  I  suppose  it's  something  wonder- 
ful; but  /  could  nivver  see  no  'Arrow  and  no 
'Ell." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  sexton,"  I  said,  noticing 
some  obviously  human  bones  in  the  earth  at 
his  graveside,  "this  churchyard  needs  a  bit  of 
new  ground." 

"Ye're  right  there,"  said  he,  "it's  needed 
that  a  good  many  years.  But  we  can't  get  no 
new  ground.  Old  Bob  Cromwell  as  owns  the 

lands  on  that  side  won't  sell,  and  Lord 

won't  give,  so  wot  are  yer  to  do  ?  Why,  I  do 
believe  as  there's  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
people  buried  in  this  little  churchyard.  It's  a 
big  parish,  too,  and  they've  been  burying  their 
dead  here  since  nobody  knows  when.  Bones  ? 
Why,  in  some  parts  there's  almost  as  much 
bones  as  there  is  clay.  Yer  puts  in  one,  and 
yer  digs  up  two:  that's  about  what  it  comes 
to.  I  sometimes  says  to  my  missis,  'I  wonder 
who  they'll  dig  up  to  make  room  for  me.' 
'Yes,'  she  says,  'and  I  wonder  who  you'll  be 
dug  up  to  make  room  for.'  It's  scandalous, 
that's  what  I  says." 


A   GRAVEDIGGER   SCENE  215 

"But  does  the  law  allow  you  to  disturb 
these  old  graves?" 

"It  does  when  they're  old  enough.  But 
you  can't  be  over  particular  in  a  place  no 
bigger  than  this.  Of  course,  we're  a  bit  care- 
ful like.  But  ask  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell 
yer  no  lies." 

"But  this  grave  you're  digging  now;  how 
long  is  it  since  the  last  interment  was  made  in 
the  same  ground?" 

"Well,  that's  a  pretty  straight  'un.  That's 
what  I  call  coming  to  the  point! — Thank  'ee, 
sir — and  good  luck  to  you  and  yours ! — How- 
ever, since  you  seem  a  plain-dealing  gentleman 
I'll  tell  you  summat  as  I  wouldn't  tell  every- 
body. You  poke  your  stick  about  in  that  soil 
over  there,  and  you'll  find  some  bits  as  be- 
longed to  Sam  Wiggin's  grandfather  on  his 
mother's  side."  (I  poked  my  stick  as  direc- 
ted.) "That's  his  tooth  you've  got  now;  but 
I  won't  swear  to  it,  as  things  had  got  a  bit 
mixed,  no  doubt,  afore  they  put  him  in.  Wait 
a  bit,  though.  What's  under  that  big  lump 
at  the  end  o'  my  spade?"  (He  reached  out 


816  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

his  spade  and  touched  a  clod ;  I  turned  it  over 
and  revealed  the  thing  it  hid:  he  examined 
it  carefully.)  'You  see,  you  can  generally 
tell  after  a  bit  o'  practice  what  belongs  to 
what.  Putting  two  and  two  together — what 
with  them  bones  coming  up  so  regular,  and 
that  bit  o'  coffin  furniture  right  on  the  top  on 
'em — I  reckon  we've  struck  'im  much  as  he 
was  put  down  in  '62." 

"Are  none  of  his  relatives  living?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  they're  living.  Didn't 
I  tell  yer  he  was  grandfather  to  Sam  Wiggin 
— that's  'im  as  farms  the  Leasowes  at  t'other 
end  of  the  village.  What'll  he  say? — why, 
nothing  o'  course.  Them  as  sees  nothing, 
says  nothing." 

"But,"  I  said,  "if  Sam  comes  to  church 
next  Sunday  he'll  see  his  grandfather's  bones 
sticking  out  all  over  this  grave." 

'  'Ow's  'e  to  know  they're  his  grandfather's  ? 
There's  no  name  on  'em,"  said  the  sexton. 

"But  surely  he  will  remember  that  his 
grandfather  was  buried  in  this  spot." 

"Not  'im!     'E  don't  bother  'is  'ead  about 


A   GRAVEDIGGER   SCENE  217 

grandfathers.  Sam  Wiggin!  Doesn't  know 
'e  ever  had  a  grandfather.  Somebody  else 
might  take  it  up  ?  Not  in  this  parish.  Be- 
sides, we've  all  got  used  to  it.  Folks  here  is 
all  mixed  up  wi'  one  another  while  they're 
living,  so  they  don't  mind  gettin'  a  bit  mixeder 
when  they're  dead." 

"But  is  the  parson  used  to  it  along  with 
the  rest  of  you?" 

"Well,  yer  see,  I  allus  clears  up  before  he 
comes  to  bury — ribs  and  shins  and  big  'un's  as 
won't  break  up.  Skulls  breaks  up  easy;  you 
just  catches  them  a  snope  with  yer  spade,  and 
they  splits  up  down  the  joinin'.  Week  afore 
last  I  dug  up  two  beauties  under  that  yew; 
anybody  might  a'  kep'  'em  for  a  museum. 
I've  knowed  them  as  would  ha'  done  it,  and 
sold  'em  for  eighteenpence  apiece.  But  I 
couldn't  bring  my  mind  to  it." 

"So  you  just  broke  them  up,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  One  on  'em  belonged  to 
a  man  as  I  once  knowed;  leastways  I  re- 
member him  as  a  young  chap.  He  was 
underkeeper  at  the  Hall.  The  young  woman 


218  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

he  wanted  to  marry  wouldn't  'ave  'im,  so  he 
shot  hisself  wi'  a  rook  gun.  I  knowed  it  was 
'im  by  the  'ole  in  'is  'ead,  no  bigger  nor  a  pea. 
Just  think  o'  that!  No  bigger  nor  a  big  pea, 
I  tell  yer,  and  as  round  as  if  it  had  been  done 
wi'  a  punch.  I  told  my  missis  about  it 
when  I  went  'ome  to  my  tea.  I  says,  'Do 
yer  remember  'Arry  Pole,  the  young  keeper 
in  the  old  lord's  time,  what  shot  hisself  over 
that  affair  wi'  Polly  Towers  ? '  '  Remember 
'im?'  she  says.  'Why,  I  used  to  go  out 
walking  wi'  'im  myself  afore  he  took  up  wi' 
Polly.'  'I  thought  you  did,'  I  says;  'well, 
there's  'is  skull.  See  that  little  'ole  in  it, 
clean  as  if  it  had  been  cut  wi'  a  punch  ?  He 
never  shot  hisself,  not  'e!'  Why,  bless  yer 
heart,  doesn't  it  stand  to  sense  that  if  'e'd  done 
it  'isself,  he'd  a'most  ha'  blowed  'is  'ead  off, 
leastways  made  a  'ole  a  lot  bigger  nor  that? 
And  wot's  more,  there'd  ha'  been  a  'ole  on 
the  other  side,  and  there  wasn't  any  sign  o' 
one." 

"But  perhaps  it  wasn't  'Arry  Pole's  skull  ?" 
"Yes,  it  was.     Why,  where's  the  sense  of 


A   GRAVEDIGGER   SCENE  219 

its  not  bein'  ?  I  remember  his  bein'  buried  as 
if  it  was  yesterday,  and  I  knowed  the  spot 
quite  well.  And  do  you  think  it  likely  that 
two  men  'ud  be  put  in  the  same  grave  both 
wi'  rook  bullets  in  their  'eads  ?  If  it  wasn't 
'Arry  Pole,  who  was  it?" 

"But  wasn't  all  this  gone  into  at  the  in- 
quest?" 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  over  forty  years  since  it 
'appened;  but  I  can  remember  as  the  'ole  were 
looked  into,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  o'  talk 
at  the  time.  There  was  two  men  as  said  they 
seed  him  wi'  the  gun  in  his  hand,  and  a  mourn- 
ful look  on  his  face,  like.  And  so,  what  wi' 
one  thing  and  another,  when  they  couldn't  find 
who  else  had  killed  him,  they  give  the  verdict 
as  he  must  ha'  killed  hisself.  So,  you  see, 
they  made  it  out  some'ow.  But  you'll  never 
make  me  believe  'e  did  it  'isself — not  after 
I've  seen  that  'ole." 

"I  wonder  who  shot  him,"  I  said  medita- 
tively. 

'Yes,  and  you'll  'ave  to  go  on  wondering 
till  the  Judgment  Day.  You'll  find  out 


220  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

then.  All  I  can  tell  yer  is  that  it  wasn't  me, 
and  it  wasn't  Polly  Towers.  However,  when 
I  found  his  skull  I  didn't  break  it  as  I  do  wi' 
most  on  'em.  I  just  kep'  it  in  a  bag  and  put 
it  back  when  I  filled  in  the  grave. 

"But  you  were  askin'  me  about  Parson. 
Well,  I  telled  him  the  state  o'  the  church- 
yard when  he  come  to  the  living.  At  first  he 
took  it  pretty  easy.  'Hide  'em  as  far  as  you 
can,  Johnny,'  he  says  to  me.  'And  remember 
there's  this  great  consolation — they'll  all  be 
sorted  out  on  the  Judgment  Day.' 

"But  one  day  something  'appened  as  give 
Parson  a  pretty  start.  It  was  one  of  these 
chaps  in  motors,  I  reckon,  as  did  it.  I  see 
him  one  Saturday  night  rootin'  about  the 
churchyard  and  lookin'  behind  them  laurels 
where  I  used  to  pitch  all  the  bits  and  bobs 
of  bone  as  I  see  lying  about.  I've  often 
wished  I'd  took  the  number  on  his  motor,  and 
then  we'd  ha'  catched  him  fine!  But  he  was 
a  gentlemanly-looking  young  feller,  and  I 
didn't  suspect  nothing  at  the  time. 

"Well,  next  morning,  when  Parson  conies 


A    GRAVEDIGGER    SCENE 

to  read  the  Service,  what  do  you  think  he 
found  ?  Why,  there  was  a  man's  thigh-bone, 
large  as  life,  stuck  in  the  middle  of  the  big 
Prayer-Book  at  the  Psalms  for  the  day.  Then, 
when  he  opens  the  Bible  to  read  the  lessons, 
blessed  if  there  wasn't  a  coffin-plate,  worn 
as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper,  marking  the  place, 
Then  he  goes  into  the  pulpit,  and  the  first 
thing  he  sees  was  a  jawbone  full  of  teeth 
lyin'  on  the  cushion;  there  was  ribs  in  the 
book-rack;  there  was  a  tooth  in  his  glass  of 
water;  there  was  bones  everywhere — you 
never  see  such  a  sight  in  all  yer  life!  The 
young  man  must  ha'  taken  a  basketful  into 
the  church.  Some  he  put  into  the  pews 
some  into  the  collectin'  boxes,  some  under  the 
cushions — you  never  knew  where  you  were 
going  to  find  'em  next!" 

"That  was  a  blackguardly  thing  to  do,"  I 
said.  '  'The  man  who  did  it  deserves  the  cat." 

"So  he  does,"  said  Johnny.  "But  I  can 
tell  yer,  it's  made  us  more  partikler  ever  since. 
Everything  behind  them  laurel  bushes  was 
cleared  out  and  buried  next  day,  and,  my  eye, 


222  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

you  wouldn't  believe  what  a  lot  there  was! 
Barrer-loads ! 

"I'm  told  that  when  Lord ,  up  at  the 

Hall,  heard  on  it,  he  nearly  killed  hisself  wi' 
laughin'.  There's  some  folks' — here  Johnny 
lowered  his  voice — "there's  some  folks  as 
thinks  that  his  lordship  'ad  a  'and  in  it  hisself. 
Some  says  it  was  one  of  them  wild  chaps  as 
'e's  allus  got  staying  with  him.  That's  more 
likely,  in  my  opinion.  But  it  wouldn't  sur- 
prise me,  just  between  you  and  me,  to  hear 
some  day  that  his  lordship  was  going  to  give 
us  a  bit  o'  new  ground. " 


HOW  I  TRIED  TO  ACT  THE 
GOOD  SAMARITAN 

ONE  of  the  chief  actors  in  the  incident 
about  to  be  related  was  a  machine,  and  it  is 
important  that  the  reader  should  have  this 
machine  in  his  mind's  eye.  It  was  a  motor- 
bicycle,  furnished  in  the  midst  with  a 
sputtering  little  engine,  said  to  contain  in 
its  entrails  the  power  of  three  horses  and  a 
half.  To  the  side  thereof  was  attached  a 
small  vehicle  like  a  bath-chair,  in  which 
favoured  friends  of  the  writer  are  from  time 
to  time  either  permitted  or  invited  to  ride. 
On  this  occasion  the  bath-chair  was  empty, 
and  a  long  journey  was  drawing  to  a  close.  It 
is  true  that  at  various  periods  of  the  day  I 
had  enjoyed  the  company  of  a  passenger  in  this 

223 


224  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

humble  but  lively  little  carriage.  The  first  had 
been  a  clergyman,  who,  I  believe,  had  invented 
a  distant  engagement  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
inducing  me  to  give  him  a  ride  in  my  car.  To 
him  there  had  succeeded  a  series  of  small  boys, 
picked  up  in  various  villages,  each  of  whom, 
at  the  conclusion  of  a  brief  but  mad  career 
through  space,  was  duly  dismissed  with  a 
penny  and  a  strict  injunction  to  be  a  good  lad 
to  his  mother.  The  last  lift  had  been  given  to 
an  aged  wayfarer  whose  weary  and  travel- 
stained  appearance  had  excited  my  compas- 
sion. No  sooner,  however,  was  the  machine 
under  weigh  than  I  discovered,  in  spite  of  my 
will  to  believe  otherwise,  that  my  passenger 
was  suffering  not  from  fatigue,  but  from  in- 
toxication. To  get  rid  of  him  was  no  easy 
matter,  and  the  employment  of  stratagem 
became  necessary.  What  the  stratagem  was, 
I  shall  pass  over;  I  will  only  say  that  it  was 
not  in  accordance  with  any  recognised  form 
of  the  categorical  imperative.  However,  the 
ruse  succeeded,  and  now,  as  I  have  said,  the 
car  was  empty.  Thus  were  concluded  the  pro- 


I  TRY  TO  ACT  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN  225 

legomena  to  that  great  act  of  altruism  which 
was  to  crown  the  day. 

It  was  in  a  part  of  the  country  consecrated 
by  the  genius  of  a  great  novelist  (as  what  part 
of  England  is  not?)  that  these  things  took 
place.  I  found  myself  in  the  narrow  streets  of 
an  ancient  town — and  it  was  market-day. 
The  roadway  was  thronged  with  red-faced 
men  and  women;  and  flocks  of  sheep,  herds 
of  cattle  and  pigs,  provided  the  motor-cyclist 
with  a  severe  probation  to  the  nerves.  With 
much  risk  to  myself,  and  not  a  little  to  other 
people,  I  emerged  from  this  place  of  danger 
and  joyfully  swept  over  the  bridge  into  the 
broad  highway  beyond  the  town. 

Turning  a  corner,  I  became  suddenly  aware 
that  the  road  a  hundred  yards  ahead  was 
again  blocked.  Two  carriers'  carts,  a  brewer's 
waggon,  and  some  other  miscellaneous  vehicles 
were  drawn  up  anyhow  in  the  road,  and  the 
drivers  of  these,  having  descended  from  their 
various  perches,  were  gathered  around  a  figure 
lying  prostrate  on  the  ground.  I,  too,  alighted 

and  forced  my  way  into  the  group.     In  the 

15 


226  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

midst  was  an  old  man,  his  countenance  pallid 
as  death,  save  where  a  broad  stream  of  blood 
pouring  from  a  gash  two  inches  long,  crim- 
soned his  cheek  from  eye  to  chin.  There  was 
a  great  bruise  on  his  temple,  and  again  on  the 
back  of  his  head — for  he  had  spun  round  in  fall- 
ing— was  a  lump  the  size  of  a  pullet's  first  egg. 

"  'Oss  ran  away  and  pitched  him  on  the 
curb,"  said  one  whom  I  questioned.  "He's 
dying,"  said  another,  "if  not  already  dead." 
For  myself,  I  turned  sick  at  the  sight; 
nevertheless,  I  could  not  help  being  struck 
by  the  vigorous  actions  and  attitude  of  an 
old  woman,  who,  armed  with  a  bucket 
of  water  and  a  roller  towel,  seemed  to  be 
not  merely  bathing  his  wounds,  but  giving 
the  whole  man  a  bath.  I  also  noted  the  figure 
of  a  clergyman,  of  whom  all  that  I  distinctly 
recall  is  that  he  had  a  tassel  round  his  hat. 

"We  must  take  him  to  the  hospital,"  said  I. 
"No,"  said  an  elderly  man;  "he'll  be  dead 
before  you  get  him  there.  He's  nearly  gone 
already.  Better  fetch  a  doctor." 

"Has  anybody  got  a  bicycle?"   said   the 


I  TRY  TO  ACT  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN  827 

clergyman  in  the  slightly  imperious  accents  of 
Keble  College.  "Yes,"  I  replied,  "I've  got 
one,  and  just  the  sort  of  bicycle  for  this  busi- 
ness, too."  "You'd  better  fetch  Ross,"  said 
the  same  voice,  speaking  once  more  in  the 
tones  which  indicate  conscious  possession  of 
the  Last  Word  on  Everything  Whatsoever. 
"No,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  enough  de- 
fiance in  her  manner  to  frighten  a  Pope, 
"No,  Ross's  no  good.  Fetch  Conklin."  "All 
right,"  I  said;  "if  one  of  you  will  show  me 
where  Conklin  lives,  I'll  fetch  him  in  a  brace 
of  shakes." 

Instantly  the  whole  company,  saving  only 
the  parson  and  the  old  woman,  volunteered. 
Selecting  one  who  seemed  of  lighter  weight 
than  the  rest  (he  was  a  boy),  I  jumped  up, 
called  to  my  three  horses,  yoked  up  the  half- 
horse  (kept  in  reserve  for  great  occasions),  and, 
letting  all  loose  at  once,  drove  at  top  speed  in 
the  direction  of  Conklin's  abode. 

Then  was  seen  in  the  streets  of  that  old 
town  such  a  scurrying  and  scattering,  both  of 
men  and  beast,  as  the  world  has  not  beheld 


228  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

since  the  most  desperate  moments  of  John 
Gilpin's  ride.  Back  over  the  bridge,  where 
Cavaliers  and  Roundheads  once  stood  at  push 
of  pike  for  fifty  minutes  by  "the  towne 
clocke";  through  the  market-place,  where  the 
cheap- jack  ceased  lying  that  he  might  regard 
us;  past  the  policeman  at  the  Cross  (slower 
at  this  point);  up  the  steep  gradient  of  the 
High  Street;  right  through  a  flock  of  geese 
(illustrious  bird!  who  not  only  warnest  great 
cities  of  impending  ruin,  but  keepest  thyself 
out  of  harm's  way  better  than  any  four-footed 
beast  of  the  field),  we  drove  our  headlong 
course;  and,  in  less  time  than  this  paragraph 
has  taken  to  write  I  stood  on  the  doorstep, 
of  the  doctor's  house.  In  another  minute  I 
had  seen  him  and  told  my  tale. 

The  doctor  received  my  gushings  with 
perfect  impassivity,  and  responded  with  the 
merest  apology  for  a  grunt.  But  the  repeated 
allusion  to  flowing  blood  seemed  at  last  to 
rouse  him.  He  seized  a  black  bag  that  stood 
on  the  table,  thrust  in  the  necessary  tackle, 
and  said,  "Come  along." 


I  TRY  TO  ACT  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN  229 

In  the  race  back  to  the  Field  of  Blood,  I 
had  no  leisure  to  analyse  the  structure  of 
Conklin's  mind.  But  a  few  remarks  which  he 
shouted  in  my  ear  revealed  the  fact  that  his 
interests  were  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
performance  of  professional  duty.  I  could  not 
help  wondering  what  Ross  was  like.  If  any 
reader  should  be  taken  suddenly  ill  while 
staying  in  that  town,  my  advice,  formed 
mainly  on  negative  data,  would  be  to  send  for 
Ross  during  the  acute  stage  of  the  malady, 
and  to  try  Conklin's  treatment  in  convales- 
cence. Or,  better  still,  call  them  both  in  at 
once,  and  then  take  your  choice. 

These  mental  observations  were  scarcely 
completed  when  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  us 
in  sight  of  our  goal.  Will  the  reader  believe 
me  when  I  tell  him  that  the  goal  seemed  to 
have  vanished  ?  I  could  .  scarcely  believe  it 
myself.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  Stare  as 
I  would,  no  human  form,  living  or  dead, 
prostrate  or  upright,  wounded  or  whole, 
answered  to  my  gaze.  Men,  horses,  and  carts 
— all  were  gone!  The  whole  insubstantial 


230  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

pageant  had  faded,  leaving  not  a  wrack 
behind. 

"This  is  the  place,"  I  said  to  Conklin;  "but 
the  man  has  disappeared."  For  answer,  he 
looked  fixedly  into  the  pupil  of  my  left  eye, 
expecting,  no  doubt,  to  find  there  unmistakable 
signs  of  lunacy.  "Wait  a  bit,"  I  cried,  divin- 
ing his  thoughts;  "here's  somebody  who  will 
clear  it  up."  And  I  pointed  to  a  cottage-door 
at  which  I  suddenly  espied  the  old  woman 
whose  handling  of  the  roller-towel  had  so  im- 
pressed me.  "Where,"  I  shouted,  addressing 
her,  "where  is  the  wounded  man?"  'Took 
away,"  was  the  laconic  reply.  "Took  away!" 
I  said;  "and  who  has  had  the  impudence  to 
take  him  away?" 

"Why,"  said  the  old  woman,  "you  hadn't 
been  gone  more'n  two  minutes  when  his  niece 
— her  as  keeps  his  house — comes  driving  home 
in  a  big  cart.  *  Hello!'  she  says,  *  blest  if  that 
isn't  Uncle  Fred!'  'Yes,'  says  one  of  'em, 
'and  got  it  pretty  badly  this  time,  I  can  tell 
yer.  There's  a  gentleman  just  gone  to  fetch 
Conklin.'  '  Conklin  ? '  says  she.  ' I'll  Conklin 


I  TRY  TO  ACT  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN  231 

'im!  Who  do  you  think's  going  to  pay  'im? 
Not  me!  Let  'im  as  fetches  'im  pay  'im. 
'Ere,'  she  says,  'some  of  yer  help  to  put  this 
old  man  on  the  bottom  of  my  cart,  and  look 
sharp,  or  Conklin  '11  be  here  in  a  minute.' 
So  they  shoves  the  poor  old  thing  on  to  the 
floor  of  the  cart  with  a  sack  of  'taters  to  keep 
him  steady,  and  Eliza — that's  her  name — 'its 
the  'oss  with  a  long  stick  as  she  carried  in- 
stead of  a  whip,  sets  off  at  full  gallop,  and 
was  out  of  sight  almost  before  you  could  say 
so.  Somebody  else  took  the  old  man's  pony, 
and  the  rest  of  'em  all  made  off  as  fast  as  they 
could." 

"And  what  did  that  clergyman  do?"  I 
asked. 

"Jumped  on  his  bicycle  and  went  'ome  to 
his  tea,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"The  sneak!"  I  cried. 

14  You  couldn't  ha'  used  a  better  word,"  said 
the  old  woman,  "and  there's  plenty  of  people 
in  this  parish  who'd  be  glad  to  hear  you  say  it. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  there's  plenty  more 
like  him!"  This  last  was  shouted  with  great 


MAD    SHEPHERDS 

emphasis,  perhaps  with  a  view  to  Conklin's 
edification,  but  at  all  events  with  the  air  of  a 
person  who  could  produce  supporting  evidence 
were  such  to  be  demanded. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  I  endeavoured  to 
collect  my  thoughts.  "Doctor,"  I  said, 
making  a  desperate  attempt  to  get  as  near  the 
Good  Samaritan  as  these  untoward  develop- 
ments rendered  possible,  "Doctor,  what's 
your  fee  ?  " 

"The  expression  on  your  face  is  the  best 
fee  I've  had  for  a  long  time,"  said  the  doctor; 
"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  bring  my  kodak." 

"Doctor  Conklin,"  I  resumed,  "I'll  tell  you 
one  thing.  You  and  this  old  lady  are  the 
only  members  of  the  company  who  carry  away 
an  untarnished  reputation  from  this  episode. 
As  for  me,  I  have  been  made  a  perfect  fool  of. 
As  for  the  rest  of  them," — I  waited  for  words  to 
come,  and,  finally  lapsing  into  melodrama,  said 

"as  for  the  rest  of  them,  I  leave  them  to  the 
company  of  their  own  consciences." 

"There's  one  of  'em  as  hasn't  got  any," 
said  the  old  woman. 


"MACBETH"  AND  "BANQUO" 
ON  THE  BLASTED  HEATH 

THE  scene  was  the  top  of  a  lofty  hill  in 
Northamptonshire,  crossed  by  the  high  road 
to  London.  The  time,  late  afternoon  of  a 
dark  and  thunderous  day  in  July. 

I  had  journeyed  many  miles  that  day — on 
wheels,  according  to  the  fashion  of  this  age — 
and  had  passed  and  overtaken  hundreds,  liter- 
ally hundreds,  of  tramps.  With  some  of  these 
I  had  already  conversed  as  we  sheltered  from 
recurrent  storms  under  hedges  or  wayside 
trees;  and  I  had  committed,  with  a  joyful 
conscience,  all  the  vices  of  indiscriminate 
charity. 

But  now  the  rain  came  on  in  earnest. 
Blacker  and  blacker  grew  the  skies,  and,  just 
as  I  reached  the  top  of  this  shelterless  hill, 

233 


234  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened,  and  the 
flood  burst. 

No  house  was  in  sight.  But,  looking  round 
me,  in  that  spirit  of  despair  bred  of  black 
weather  and  a  wet  skin,  I  saw,  in  a  large 
bare  field,  a  shepherd's  box — a  thing  on 
wheels,  large  enough,  perhaps,  to  accom- 
modate a  prosperous  vendor  of  ice-cream. 
Abandoning  my  iron  friend  to  the  cold  mercies 
of  the  ditch,  I  scaled  the  wall,  crossed  the 
field,  and  dived  into  the  dry  interior  of  the 
box.  At  one  bound  I  entered  into  full  pos- 
session of  the  freedom  of  Diogenes  in  his 
tub,  with  no  Alexander  to  bother  me.  The 
absolute  seclusion  of  the  country  was  all  my 
own. 

The  box  was  closed  by  a  half-door,  with  an 
aperture  above  facing  towards  the  road.  Had 
the  animal  inside  possessed  four  legs  instead 
of  two,  his  body  would  have  filled  the  box, 
and  his  head  would  have  projected  into  the 
rain.  Though  my  head  was  inside,  I  could 
see  well  enough  what  was  going  on  in  the 
road.  Presently  there  passed  two  cyclists — a 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        235 

young  man  and  woman — racing  through  the 
storm.  I  shouted  to  them,  but  my  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  din.  Some  minutes  elapsed, 
during  which  I  had  the  company  of  my 
thoughts.  Then  suddenly  there  appeared  on 
the  wall  the  incarnate  figures  of  two  tramps, 
unquestionably  such.  They  had  seen  the  box, 
and  were  making  tracks  for  it  with  all  their 
might. 

I  confess  that  for  a  moment  my  spirit 
quailed  within  me.  Seen  at  that  distance,  the 
newcomers  looked  ugly  customers;  they  had 
me  in  a  trap,  and,  had  I  possessed  pistols,  I 
verily  believe  that  I  should  have  "looked  to 
the  priming. "  But,  having  no  alternatives  of 
that  kind  before  me,  necessity  determined  the 
policy  I  was  to  pursue,  and  I  resolved  at 
once  for  a  friendly  attitude.  Waiting  till  the 
tramps  were  well  within  hearing,  I  thrust  my 
head  from  the  aforesaid  aperture  and  cried 
aloud  as  follows: 

"Walk  up,  gentlemen!  It's  my  annual 
free  day.  No  charge  for  seats." 

Macbeth    and    Banquo    were    not    more 


236  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

affrighted  by  the  apparition  of  witches  on 
the  blasted  heath  than  were  these  two  in- 
dividuals when  they  heard  the  voice  from  the 
box,  and  saw  the  face  of  him  that  spake. 
They  stopped  dead,  stared,  and,  though  I 
won't  give  this  on  oath,  turned  pale.  I  be- 
lieve they  were  genuinely  scared. 

Presently  one  of  them — say  Macbeth — broke 
into  a  loud  and  merry  laugh.  The  sound  of  it 
was  worth  more  to  me  at  that  moment  than 
a  sheaf  of  testimonials,  for  I  remembered 
Carlyle's  dictum  that  there  is  nothing  irreme- 
diably wrong  with  any  man  who  can  utter  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"All  right,  guvnor,"  came  the  reply,  "we'll 
take  two  stalls  in  the  front  row." 

"Good!"  I  replied.  "Wire  just  received 
from  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  resign- 
ing their  seats!  Bring  your  own  opera- 
glasses,  and  don't  forget  the  fans." 

"Got  'em  both,"  said  Macbeth. 

A  moment  later  I  found  myself  in  close 
physical  proximity  to  two  of  the  dirtiest 
rascals  in  Christendom.  A  reconciler  of  oppo- 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        237 

sites,  bent  on  knocking  our  heads  together, 
would  have  had  an  easy  task,  for  there  was  not 
more  than  eight  inches  between  them.  Mis- 
fortunes are  said  to  bring  out  the  fragrance 
of  noble  natures,  and  I  can  testify  that  the 
wetting  these  men  had  received  most  effectu- 
ally brought  out  the  fragrance  of  theirs.  And 
the  ventilation  was  none  too  good. 

The  language  in  which  the  newcomers  pro- 
ceeded to  introduce  themselves  was  not  of  the 
kind  usually  printed,  though  it  had  a  distinctly 
theological  tinge.  More  strenuous  blasphemy 
I  have  never  heard  on  land — or  sea. 

The  introductions  concluded — they  were 
sufficient — Macbeth,  as  though  suddenly  re- 
collecting an  interrupted  train  of  thought, 
broke  out:  "Say,  mister,  did  yer  see  them  two 
go  by  on  bicycles  just  now?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  see  'em,  quarter  of  a  mile  oop  the 
road,  crouching  oonder  t'hedge" — he  spoke 
Yorkshire1 — "wet  to  skin,  and  she  nowt  on 

1  The  reader  who  would  get  the  full  flavour  of  Macbeth's 
conversation  should  translate  it,  if  he  can,  into  a  broad 


238  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

but  a  cotton  blouse.  So  I  sez  to  her,  'My 
dear,  ye'll  get  yer  death  o'  cold.'  'Yes,'  she 
says,  'and  me  with  a  weak  chest.'  Pore  young 
thing,  I'm  fair  sorry  for  her.  I  towd  t'young 
man  to  tek  his  co-at  off  and  put  it  ra-ownd 
her.  'That'll  do  no  good,'  he  sez;  'she's  wet 
through  a'ready.'  'Well,'  I  sez,  'she's  not 
been  wet  through  all  her  life,  has  she  ?  Why 
didn't  you  put  it  on  her  while  she  were  dry  ? 
Sense  ?  You've  got  no  more  sense  nor  a  blind 
rabbit.'  But  it  was  no  good.  My!  What 
rain!  Nivver  see  nothing  like  it.  They'll  be 
fair  drownded.  I  think  I'll  go  and  fetch  'em 
in.  Holy  potatoes!"  (Will  anyone  explain 
this  expression  ?  It  was  evoked  by  a  crash  of 
thunder  which  burst  immediately  above  the 
box  and  seemed  to  hurl  us  into  space.) 

"No  good  fetching  'em  in  now,"  I  replied, 
taking  a  point  of  view  which  I  afterwards  saw 
to  have  been  that  of  the  Priest  and  the  Levite. 
"They'd  suffer  more  damage  getting  here  than 

Yorkshire  dialect.  This  I  have  indicated  here  and  there 
by  the  spelling  of  a  word,  which  is  as  far  as,  or  perhaps 
farther  than,  my  own  competence  extends. 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        239 

staying  where  they  are.  Besides,  where  would 
you  put  'em  ?  " 

"That's  trew,"  said  Macbeth.  "This  ain't 
no  place  for  ladies,  anyhow."  (It  wasn't!) 
"But  just  think  of  that  pore  young  thing 
— nowt  on,  I  tell  yer,  but  a  cotton  blouse. 
Hello!  there's  a  cart  coming.  I'll  tell  t'man 
to  tek  'em  oop." 

Out  jumped  Macbeth  into  the  pelting  rain, 
and  presently  I  heard  him  shouting  to  the  man 
in  charge:  "Hey,  mister!  There's  a  young 
man  and  woman  crouching  under  t'hedge  oop 
t'ro-ad.  She  nowt  on  but  a  cotton  blouse! 
It  isn't  sa-afe,  yer  know,  in  this  thoonder  and 
lightnin'.  Tek  her  oop,  and  put  a  sack  or  two 
on  her." 

I  gathered  the  result  of  the  interview  was 
satisfactory  to  Macbeth,  for  presently  he  came 
back,  steaming,  into  the  box.  For  some 
minutes  he  continued  to  mutter  with  the 
thunder,  about  "poor  young  things,"  "cotton 
blouses,"  and  "weak  chests." 

But  the  altruistic  passion  in  the  man  had 
spent  itself  for  the  moment,  and  now  the 


240  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

conversation  began  to  take  other  forms. 
Banquo  began  to  enter  into  the  dialogue. 
His  contributions  so  far  had  been  mainly 
interjectory  and  blasphemous — a  department 
of  which  he  was  obviously  a  more  versatile 
exponent  than  the  other,  who  was  by  no 
means  a  'prentice  hand.  And  here  I  must 
note  a  curious  thing.  Whether  it  was  that 
the  box  afforded  no  proper  theatre  for  exhibit- 
ing the  natural  dignity  of  my  carriage,  or 
that  the  light  was  not  good,  or  that  I  am 
a  ruffian  at  heart  and  had  been  caught  at  an 
unguarded  moment — whatever  the  true  cause 
may  have  been,  I  am  certain  that  up  to  this 
moment  my  two  companions  had  no  suspicion 
that  I  was  not  a  tramp  like  themselves. 

It  was  Banquo  who  unmasked  the  truth. 
His  mind  was  less  preoccupied  with  the 
sufferings  of  the  "poor  young  thing,"  and 
no  doubt  had  been  taking  observations.  The 
result  of  these  he  proceeded  to  communi- 
cate to  Macbeth  by  a  series  of  nudges  and 
winks  which,  in  the  close  proximity  of  the 
moment,  I  felt  rather  than  saw.  On  the 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        241 

whole,  I  am  sorry  that  their  first  delusion — 
if,  indeed,  it  was  a  delusion,  of  which  I  am 
genuinely  doubtful  —  was  not  maintained. 
However,  the  discovery  opened  the  way  to 
fresh  developments.  They  ceased  to  address 
me  as  "Johnny,"  "Old  Joker,"  or  something 
worse;  ceased  swearing,  for  which,  lover  of 
originality  as  I  am,  I  was  thankful ;  and  began 
generally  to  pay  me  the  respect  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  soles  of  my  boots  were  intact. 
Theirs  were  in  a  very  different  condition. 

I  can't  disguise  that  there  was  something 
like  an  awkward  pause.  But  I  exerted  myself 
to  bridge  the  chasm,  and,  thanks  to  them 
rather  than  to  me,  it  was  bridged. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-night?"  I  asked 
as  soon  as  the  modus  vivendi  was  assured. 

"Ain't  going  nowhere  in  particular,"  said 
Banquo.  "We  just  go  anywhere." 

"What!"  I  said,  "don't  you  know  where 
you'll  pass  the  night?" 

"Well,  it's  just  this  way,"  returned  the 
other.  "Me  and  my  mate  here  are  musicians, 
and  we  just  go  this  way  and  that  according  to 

16 


MAD    SHEPHERDS 

where  the  publics  are.  It's  in  the  publics  we 
makes  what  living  we  gets — singing  in  the 
bars  and  cadging  for  drink  and  coppers." 

"And  a  bloomin'  shame  we  should  have  to 
do  it!"  chimed  in  Macbeth.  "But  what  can 
yer  do  ?  My  trade's  a  mason;  Leeds  is  where 
I  come  from;  but  when  they're  short  of  work, 
if  you've  got  two  grey  hairs  and  another  chap's 
got  only  one,  you  gets  the  sack,  and  has  to 
live  as  best  yer  can. 

"God  knows  I  don't  want  this  beastly 
life.  But  it's  a  good  thing  I've  got  it  to 
turn  to.  Most  on  'em  has  nowt  but  their 
trades,  and  them's  the  ones  as  has  to  starve. 
But  me  and  my  mate  here  happens  to  be 

moosical.  Used  to  sing  in  St.  Church 

in  Leeds.  Leading  bass,  I  was — a  bit 
irregular,  I'll  own,  and  that's  why  they 
wouldn't  keep  me  on.  My  mate  plays  the 
cornet.  He  used  to  be  in  the  band  of  the 

Fusiliers.  Served  in  South  Africa,  he 

did,  and  got  a  sock  in  the  face  from  a  shell; 
yer  can  see  the  'ole  under  his  eye.  Good 
thing  it  didn't  'it  him  in  the  ma-outh.  or  he 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        243 

wouldn't  ha'  been  able  to  play  the  cornet  any 
more.     Know  Yorkshire,  mister?" 

I  replied  that  I  did. 

"Well,  if  yer  knows  Yorkshire,  yer  knows 
there's  plenty  of  music  up  there.  They  can 
tell  music,  when  they  hear  it,  in  Yorkshire, 
that  they  can!  But  these  caownties  down 
here,  why,  the  people  knows  no  more  about 
music  nor  pigs.  They  can't  tell  the  difference 
between  a  man  what  really  can  sing  and 
one  of  these  'ere  'owlin'  'umbugs  that  goes 
draggin'  little  children  up  and  daown  t' 
streets.  That  sort  makes  more  money  than 
we  does.  And  I  tell  you,  him  'ere" — indi- 
cating Banquo — "is  a  good  cornet  player. 
'Ere,  Banquo,  fetch  it  out  o'  your  pocket, 
lad,  and  play  the  gentleman  a  toon." 

As  far  as  I  could  judge,  Banquo's  pocket 
was  situated  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  his 
back,  for  it  was  from  a  region  in  that  quarter, 
where  I  had  already  felt  a  hard  excrescence, 
due  as  I  might  have  thought  to  an  unextracted 
cannon-ball  received  in  South  Africa,  that  the 
cornet  was  produced. 


244  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"Play  the  gentleman  'The  Merry  Widder,'  " 
said  Macbeth,  "and  wait  till  the  thunder's 
stopped  rolling  before  you  begin." 

The  "Merry  Widder"  was  well  and  duly 
played,  and  fully  bore  out  Macbeth's  eulogy 
of  the  player.  It  was  followed  by  some- 
thing from  Maritana,  and  other  things 
which  I  forget.  Though  the  mouth  of  the 
trumpet  was  only  a  few  inches  from  the  drum 
of  my  ear,  yet  the  din  of  the  rain  on  the  roof 
was  such  that  the  effect  was  not  unpleasant — 
at  all  events,  it  was  a  welcome  relief  from  the 
frightful  strains  on  the  olfactory  organ.  The 
man,  I  say,  was  a  good  player,  and  I  remember 
wishing,  as  I  listened  to  him,  that  there  was 
anything  in  life  that  I  could  do  half  as  well. 

As  he  finished  one  of  his  selections,  the 
gloom  deepened,  it  became  almost  as  dark  as 
night,  the  rain  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  there 
was  silence;  and  then  there  shot  in  upon  us 
a  blast  of  fire  and  a  bolt  of  thunder,  so  near 
and  so  overwhelming  that  I  verily  believe  it 
was  a  narrow  escape  from  death. 

"That's  something  to  put  the  fear  of  God 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        245 

into  a  man,"  said  Macbeth,  as  the  volley  rolled 
into  distance.  "My  crikey!  But  I've  heard 
say,  mister,  that  the  thunder  is  the  voice  of 
the  wrath  of  God." 

"I'm  sure  it  is,"  I  replied. 

"Sounds  like  it  anyhow.  I  wonder  if  that 
there  chap  with  the  cart  has  got  the  young 
woman  under  cover.  She'll  be  scared  out  of 
her  life.  Eh,  but  isn't  it  dark  ?  It  might  be 
half-past  ten.  Here,  matey" — to  Banquo — 
"let's  have  something  in  keepin'  loike.  Give 
us  'Lead,  Kindly  Light,'  lad,  on  t'  cornet,  and 
I'll  sing  the  bass.  I  want  t'  gentleman  to 
hear  my  voice." 

The  hymn  was  sung  in  a  voice  as  good  as 
some  that  have  made  great  fortunes,  but  with 
a  depth  of  emotion  which  occasionally  spoilt 
the  notes;  and  I  can  say  little  more  than  that 
the  singing,  in  that  strange  setting,  with 
muttering  thunder  for  an  undertone,  was  a 
thing  I  shall  not  forget. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  that  hymn  ?" 
said  Macbeth  (the  tears  made  watercourses 
down  his  dirty  face)  when  it  was  over. 


246  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "a  little." 

"But  I  know  all  about  it,"  replied  Macbeth. 
"Him  as  wrote  that  hymn  was  Cardinal 
Newman.  They  say  he  wrote  it  at  sea, 
maybe  he  wrote  it  in  a  storm — like  this.  He 
was  a  Protestant,  and  was  just  turning  into  a 
Catholic.  Didn't  know  whether  he  would  or 
whether  he  wouldn't,  loike.  That's  what  he 
means  when  he  says,  'Lead,  Kindly  Light.' 
He  was  i'  th'  dark,  and  wanted  lightin'.  It 
was  all  dark,  don't  you  see,  just  loike  it  is 
naow." 

Some  minutes  elapsed,  during  which  neither 
Banquo  nor  I  said  a  word.  I  stole  a  glance  at 
the  "  'ole  under  his  eye,"  and  saw  that  it  was 
no  laughing  matter  to  "get  a  sock  in  the  face 
from  a  shell."  The  human  profile,  on  that 
side,  had  virtually  disappeared;  jaw  and 
cheek-bone  were  smashed  in;  there  was  neither 
nostril  nor  ear;  the  lower  eyelid  was  missing; 
the  eye  itself  was  evidently  sightless,  and  a 
constant  trickle  of  tears  ran  down  into  the 
hideous  scar  below. 

I    thought    of   this   man    wandering   over 


"MACBETH"   AND  "BANQUO"        247 

the  earth,  abhorred  of  all  beholders;  I 
thought  of  the  music  he  managed  to  make 
with  the  remnant  of  his  mutilated  face;  I 
thought  also  of  the  rigour  of  Destiny  and  the 
kindliness  of  Death.  I  remember  the  words 
running  in  my  head,  "He  hath  no  form  nor 
comeliness.  Yet  he  was  wounded  for  our 
transgressions,  and  the  chastisement  of  our 
peace  was  upon  him." 

I  averted  my  glance,  but  not  before  Banquo 
had  discovered  that  I  was  looking  at  him. 
"Ha,"  he  said;  "you're  lookin'  at  my  face. 
It's  a  beauty,  isn't  it?  They  ought  to  put  it 
on  the  board  outside  the  recruitin'  stations,  as 
a  sort  of  inducement  to  good-lookin'  young 
men.  Help  to  make  the  Army  popular  wi' 
the  young  women,  don't  you  see?  'George, 
why  don't  you  join  the  Army  and  get  a  face 
like  that?  You'd  be  worth  lookin'  at  then.' 
Can't  you  hear  'em  saying  it  ?  Oh,  yes,  I'm 
proud  o'  my  face,  that  I  am!  So's  my  old  gal. 
That's  why  she  left  me  and  the  kids  the  day 
I  come  home — never  seen  her  since.  Every 
time  I  draws  my  pension  I  says  to  myself, 


24-8  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

'Bill,  my  lad,  that  face  o'  yours  is  cheap  at 
the  price.  Keep  up  your  pecker,  my  hearty; 
you'll  make  yer  fortune  when  Mr.  Barnum  sees 
yer!  It's  a  bloomin'  good  investment,  that's 
what  I  calls  it.  Give  yer  a  sort  o'  start  in 
life.  Makes  folks  glad  to  see  yer  when  you 
drops  in  to  tea.  And  then  I'm  always  feelin' 
as  though  I  wanted  to  have  my  photograph 
taken — and  that's  nice,  too.  So  you  see 
takin'  it  all  round,  it's  quite  a  blessin'  to  have 
a  face  like  mine." 

I  was  silent,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 
Banquo  went  on: 

"I  thought  when  I  come  out  o'  the 
'orspital  as  it  were  all  up  wi'  playin'  the  cornet. 
But  I  made  up  my  mind  as  I'd  try.  So  I 
kep'  up  practice  all  the  way  home  from  the 
Cape,  and  when  we  got  to  Southampton  I 
could  just  manage  to  blow  into  the  mouth- 
piece. It  hurt  a  bit,  too,  I  can  tell  you.  You 
see,  I  can  only  play  on  one  side  o'  my  mouth — 
like  this.  But  I  got  used  to  it  after  a  time; 
and  now  I  can  play  a'most  as  well  wi'  half  a 
mouth  as  I  used  to  do  wi'  a  whole  un." 


"MACBETH"    AND   "BANQUO"        249 

Again  I  was  silent,  for  there  was  a  tangle 
of  thoughts  in  my  mind,  and  behind  it  all 
a  vague,  uncomfortable  sense  that  I  was  come 
to  judgment.  From  this  sprang  a  sudden 
resolve  to  change  the  subject,  which  was  un- 
pleasant to  me  in  more  senses  than  one.  So 
I  said,  after  the  pause,  "What  about  your 
pension?" 

"Pension,  did  you  say?  Well,  you  see,  sir, 
I've  been  in  a  bit  o'  trouble  since  I  come 
home.  There  was  a  kind  old  gent  as  give  me 
three  months  in  the  choke-hole  for  not  behav- 
in'  quite  as  handsome  as  I  ought  to.  'It'll 
spile  all  my  good  looks,  your  Worship,'  I  says 
when  he  sentenced  me.  'Remove  the 
prisoner,  officer!'  he  says;  and  I  thinks  to 
myself,  'I'd  like  to  remove  you,  old  gentleman, 
and  see  what  you'd  look  like  on  a  hammyni- 
tion  waggon,  wi'  two  dead  pals  under  your 
nose,  and  a  pom-pom  shell  a-burstin'  in  your 
ear-'ole.'  But  I've  had  one  good  friend,  any- 
how; and  I  don't  want  a  better— and  that's 
him  there"  (indicating  Macbeth).  "He's  a 
man,  he  is!  I  can  tell  you  one  thing! — if  it 


250  MAD    SHEPHERDS 

hadn't  been  for  him  there,  I'd  ha'  sent  the 
other  half  o'  my  head  to  look  for  the  first  long 
ago — and  that's  the  truth!" 

While  this  conversation  was  proceeding 
Macbeth,  more  suo,  continued  to  mutter  like 
a  man  in  a  troubled  dream,  now  humming  a 
bar  of  the  tune,  now  drawling  out  a  phrase 
from  the  words,  "O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er 
crag  and  torrent,  till  the  night  is  gone" — this, 
I  believe,  he  repeated  several  times,  lighting 
his  pipe  in  the  intervals  and  spitting  out  of  the 
door.  Then  he  went  on  more  articulately: 
"Rum  go,  ain't  it — me  singing  that  hymn  in 
a  place  like  this  ?  Sung  it  in  church  'undreds 
o'  times.  We  give  it  sometimes  in  the  streets. 
It's  part  of  our  repertoire"  (he  pronounced 
this  word  quite  correctly).  "But  I  can't  help 
makin'  a  babby  o'  mysen  whenever  I  think  o' 
what  it  means.  I  don't  think  of  it,  as  a  rewle. 
I  should  break  down  if  I  did ;  like  as  I  nearly 
did  just  naow.  Oh  Lor'!  I  can  get  on  all 
right  till  I  comes  to  th'  end.  It's  them 
*  angel  faces'  wot  knocks  the  stuffing  out  o' 


"MACBETH"   AND   "BANQUO"        £51 

"Same  'ere,"  I  replied;  and  I  put  my  head 
out  of  the  aperture  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 


"When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ?' 

END 


VIOLA  BURHANS'S  THE  CAVE-WOMAN 

A  novel  of  to-day  that  commences  in  a  cave  so  dark  that 
the  hero  can  see  nothing  of  the  woman  he  meets  there.  It 
ends  in  the  same  cave,  and  much  of  the  action  occurs  in  and 
near  a  neighboring  summer  hotel.  Robbery  and  mystery,  as 
well  as  love,  figure  in  the  plot  ($1.50). 

"  An  excellent  detective.  .  .  .  The  action  moves  quickly.  .  .  . 
Many  sidelights  fall  upon  newspaperdom,  and  the  author  tells  her 
story  cleverly." — Boston  Herald. 

"  The  most  delightful  of  grown-up  fairy-tales  of  modern  times.  .  .  . 
The  characters  .  .  .  are  finely  various  and  their  conversations 
piquantly  fresh  and  edifying  ...  a  dramatic  climax  of  great  strength 
and  beauty  .  .  .  clean,  clever,  captivating." — The  Boston  Common. 

"  A  very  charming,  very  elusive  and  quite  modern  young  lady  .  .  . 
a  very  delightful  story." — Bellman. 


M.  LITTLE'S  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BURNING  BUSH 

A  novel  of  such  universal  human  appeal  that  locality  makes 
little  difference.  It  starts  as  a  satire  on  Scotch  divinity 
students,  tho  there  is  said  to  be  "  not  a  word  of  preaching 
in  it"  ($1.50). 

"  Characters  drawn  with  a  sure  hand,  and  with  unusual  subtlety.  The 
story  broadens  and  strikes  deep  roots  into  human  nature  and  human 
life  ...  a  story  that  seems  as  if  it  might  have  been  made  out  of 
the  real  experiences  of  flesh  and  blood,  told  with  humor  that  is  some- 
times biting  and  sometimes  gentle,  and  with  very  great  humanness." — 
The  New  York  Times  Review. 


GERTRUDE  HALL'S  THE   UNKNOWN  QUANTITY 

A  young  widow  comes  to  New  York  to  investigate  various 
business  interests  of  her  late  husband,  and  finds  herself  face 
to  face  at  the  outset  with  the  two  most  vital  problems  of  a 
woman's  life  ($1.50). 

"  Her  people  are  alive.  They  linger  in  the  imagination." — Boston 
Transcript. 

"  Seeing  life  with  sincerity  and  truth  .  .  .  she  has  a  rather  big 
idea  for  a  working  basis." — The  Bookman. 

"  Retains  the  charmed  interest  .  .  .  the  quiet,  thoughtful  style,  and 
the  vivid,  if  restrained,  humanity.  The  tale  is  so  natural,  so  lifelike. 
.  .  .  The  author's  evident  faith  in  the  eternal  Tightness  of  things." — 
Chicago  Record-Herald. 


HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON'S 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A   VARIED  LIFE 

By  the  author  of  "A  Rebel's  Recollections,"  "Captain  Sam," 
"  A  Daughter  of  the  South,"  "  Long  Knives,"  etc.  With 
portrait.  344  pp.+8  pp.  index.  8vo.  $2.75  net;  by  mail, 
$2.92. 

These  reminiscences  of  the  veteran  author  and  editor  are 
rich  in  fields  so  wide  apart  as  the  experiences  of  a  Hoosier 
schoolmaster  (the  basis  for  the  well-known  story),  a  young 
man's  life  in  Virginia  before  the  War,  a  Confederate  soldier, 
a  veteran  in  the  literary  life  of  New  York. 

"  Jeb  Stuart,"  "  Fitz  Lee,"  Beauregard,  Grant,  Frank  R. 
Stockton,  John  Hay,  Stedman,  Bryant,  Parke  Godwin,  "  Mark 
Twain,"  Gosse,  Pulitzer,  Laffan,  and  Schurz,  are  among  the 
many  who  appear. 

The  author  was  born  at  Vevay,  Indiana,  1839,  practiced  law 
in  Virginia;  served  in  the  Confederate  Army,  was  Literary 
Editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  for  6  years,  Editor  of 
the  Commercial  Advertiser  (now  the  Globe)  ;  and  for  n  years 
Editorial  writer  for  The  World. 

"  There  are  few  American  men  of  letters  whose  reminiscences 
would  seem  to  promise  more.  The  man's  experiences  coyer  so  wide  a 
period;  he  has  had  such  exceptional  opportunities  of  seeing  interesting 
men  and  events  at  first  hand." — Bookman. 

"  Has  approached  the  emergencies  of  life  with  courage  and  relish 
.  .  .  qualities  that  make  for  readableness  .  .  .  this  autobiography, 
despite  a  tendency  to  anecdotal  divagations  ...  is  thoroughly  en- 
tertaining."— Nation. 

"  Told  with  the  convincing  force  of  actual  experience  .  .  .  has  all 
the  excellences,  and  not  many  of  the  defects,  of  the  trained  journalist 
.  .  .  tells  us  rapidly  and  effectively  what  sort  of  a  life  he  has  led 
.  .  .  full  of  interest." — Dial. 

"Its  cozily  intimate  quality.  .  .  .  One  of  those  books  which  the 
reviewer  begins  to  mark  appreciatively  for  quotation,  only  to  discover 
ere  long  that  he  cannot  possibly  find  room  for  half  the  passages 
selected." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Very  pleasant  are  these  reviews  of  the  days  that  are  gone." — Sun. 

"  He  has  much  to  say  and  says  it  graphically." — Times-Review. 

"  The  most  charming  and  useful  of  his  many  books  .  .  .  sym- 
pathetic, kindly,  humorous,  and  confidential  talk  .  .  .  laughable  anec- 
dotes ...  a  keen  observer's  and  critic's  comment  on  more  than  half 
a  century  of  American  development." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  Seldom  does  one  come  upon  so  companionable  a  volume  of 
reminiscences  .  .  .  the  author  has  good  materials  galore  and  presents 
them  with  so  kindly  a  humor  that  one  never  wearies  of  his  chatty 
history  .  .  .  the  whole  volume  is  genial  in  spirit  and  eminently  read- 
able."— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  Deserves  to  rank  high  in  the  literature  of  American  autobiography, 
even  though  that  literature  boasts  the  masterpiece  of  Benjamin  FranK- 
lin." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  JOSEPH  VANCE 

A  touching  story,  yet  full  of  humor,  of  life-long  love  and 
heroic  sacrifice.  While  the  scene  is  mostly  in  and  near  the 
London  of  the  fifties,  there  are  some  telling  glimpses  of 
Italy,  where  the  author  lives  much  of  the  time  ($175). 

"  The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century." — LEWIS  MELVILLE  in 
New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  If  the  reader  likes  both  '  David  Copperfield  '  and  '  Peter  Ibbetson.' 
he  can  find  the  two  books  in  this  one." — The  Independent. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  ALICE-FOR-SHORT 

This  might  paradoxically  be  called  a  genial  ghost-and- 
murder  story,  yet  humor  and  humanity  again  dominate,  and 
the  most  striking  element  is  the  touching  love  story  of  an 
unsuccessful  man.  The  reappearance  in  Nineteenth  Century 
London  of  the  long-buried  past,  and  a  remarkable  case  of 
suspended  memory,  give  the  dramatic  background  ($1.75). 

"  Really  worth  reading  and  praising  .  .  .  will  be  hailed  as  a  master- 
piece. If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence, 
a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De 
Morgan." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  the  Victorian  age  itself  that  speaks  in  those  rich,  interesting, 
over-crowded  books.  .  .  .  Will  be  remembered  as  Dickens'  novels  are 
remembered." — Springfield  Republican. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

The  purpose  and  feeling  of  this  novel  are  intense,  yet  it  is 
all  mellowed  by  humor,  and  it  contains  perhaps  the  author's 
freshest  and  most  sympathetic  story  of  young  love.  Through- 
out its  pages  the  "  God  be  praised  evil  has  turned  to  good  " 
of  the  old  Major  rings  like  a  trumpet  call  of  hope.  This 
story  of  to-day  tells  of  a  triumph  of  courage  and  devotion 
($1-75). 

"  A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction." — The  Nation. 

"  Our  older  novelists  (Dickens  and  Thackeray)  will  have  to  look  to 
their  laurels,  for  the  new  one  is  fast  proving  himself  their  equal.  A 
higher  quality  of  enjoyment  than  is  derivable  from  the  work  of  any 
other  novelist  now  living  and  active  in  either  England  or  America."— 
The  Dial. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  (vii»  xo)  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

This  novel  turns  on  a  strange  marital  complication,  and  is 
notable  for  two  remarkable^  women  characters,  the  pathetic 
girl  Lizarann  and  the  beautiful  Judith  Arkroyd,  with  her 
stage  ambitions.  Lizarann's  father,  Blind  Jim,  is  very  ap- 
pealingly  drawn,  and  shows  ra  :  courage  and  devotion  despite 
cruel  handicaps.  There  are  strong  dramatic  episodes,  and 
the  author's  inevitable  humor  and  optimism  ($1.75). 

"  De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is 
than  the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years." — Independent. 

"  There  has  been  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  our  day.  The  best  of 
our  contemporary  novelists  ...  do  not  so  come  home  to  our  business 
and  our  bosoms  .  .  .  his  method  ...  is  very  different  in  most 
important  respects  from  that  of  Dickens.  He  is  far  less  the  showman, 
the  dashing  prestidigitator  .  .  .  more  like  Thackeray  .  .  .  precisely 
what  the  most  '  modern  '  novelists  are  striving  for — for  the  most  part 
in  vain  .  .  .  most  enchanting  .  .  .  infinitely  lovable  and  pathetic." — 
The  Nation. 

"  Another  long  delightful  voyage  with  the  best  English  company  .  .  . 
from  Dukes  to  blind  beggars  .  .  .  you  could  make  out  a  very  good 
case  for  handsome  Judith  Arkroyd  as  an  up-to-date  Ethel  Newcome 
.  .  .  the  stuff  that  tears  in  hardened  and  careless  hearts  are  made 
of  ...  singularly  perceiving,  mellow,  wise,  charitable,  humorous 
...  a  plot  as  well  defined  as  if  it  were  a  French  farce." — The  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

"  The  characters  of  Blind  Jim  and  Lizarann  are  wonderful — worthy 
of  Dickens  at  his  best." — Professor  WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  of  Yale, 
author  of  "  Essays  on  Modern  Novelists." 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  dramatic  story  of  England  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
It  commences  with  a  fatal  duel,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  its 
remarkable  author.  The  movement  is  fairly  rapid,  and  the 
narrative  absorbing,  with  occasional  glints  of  humor  ($1.75). 


»**  A  thirty-two  page  illustrated  leaflet  about  Mr.   De   Morgan,  with 

,    complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  940  844     4 


BRENTANO'8 

Bookurller*  *  SI«I|..»«T», 

Nuw  YORK. 


